


Collected

by Down_in_the_cellar



Category: The Collector Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Drunk, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Captor Bonding, Catheters, Cutting, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fear, Forced Captivity, Forced Nudity, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Procedures, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Past Torture, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Sounding, Stitches, Vomiting, cum, forced Self-Mutilation, pet training, stitches as punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Down_in_the_cellar/pseuds/Down_in_the_cellar
Summary: The Collector wants to keep Arkin. Arkin wants to escape. Someone's going to be disappointed.[Work in Progress, More Warnings/Tags will be added as needed]





	1. Waking

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter doesn't have any sexual content, but the chapters to come will. 
> 
> I don't own the series or the characters therein. I'm not making any money from this story. 
> 
> This is my first fan-story. I hope it's enjoyable. More notes at the end of the chapter.

   ~***~

He awoke in winter. Cold wrapped around him like a wet blanket, smothering him, weighing him down. There was no light, no concept of space nor time, only the oppressive burden of the cold. Slowly, mind and body roused one another in stuttering jerks. He tried to focus, his hands began to throb. His hands began to throb, a vision of silver hooks flashed through his mind, a dropping blade hidden between wooden boards over a house window. He tried to focus on the window, to bring it into sharper reflection and his back chimed into the chorus of growing pain. Fish hooks, hooks, holding him down, dragging him down. No, not down. Up. Holding him _up_. Up in the basement. Up underground. Holding him up by his shoulders and back, by the thin skin of his hands, holding him to the exposed beams, to the support column, holding him up while the roaches chewed at his belly. His stomach sucked in, half heaving with a whimpered shudder that fled from between his clenched teeth. Hooks, not for fish, hooks for hanging meat, thick hooks, hooks holding him up for the masked man.

Arkin twisted his head, trying to open his eyes but finding that, like a man in a nightmare, he could not force his lids to rise. Or maybe his eyes were open but there was nothing to see. He forced himself to breathe, to become still and calm, to test his environment with what senses he was allotted. There was the cold. It hadn’t been cold before, had it? Maybe it had been, it was hard to think of temperature. There had been flashes of hot and cold coming in turns brought on by anxiety, fear, pain, and blood loss. There was a soft whispering sound, not voices, something running, like a refrigerator, not a car. This wasn’t the van; there was no sense of movement and no jostling. He raised his head and his shoulders balked at the motion, lighting up with an aching heat. Arkin ignored the stiffness in his muscles and tipped his head up as much as he could. Nothing brushed his head. Not in the trunk then, and not covered by something either. He lowered his head and felt something smooth and flesh warmed under his cheek. Tentatively, he poked his tongue from his mouth and touched the surface. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and metal.

Raising his head helped him realize what position he was in. To confirm, he rolled his head from side to side, feeling his ears bump against the insides of his upper arms. Once again, his arms were held over his head, but this time he wasn’t standing. This time he was lying flat on his belly. He tugged his arms down gently and grimaced. Every muscle felt like it had been worked over with a baseball bat. There was a tiny amount of give, but not much. Something strange held his wrists…not metal nor plastic nor rope…Something he couldn’t place. He tried to raise his ankles and found each one to be similarly bound, although not together as his wrists were held. His knees and thighs quivered as he tried to bring them together and found it impossible.  Where ever he was, it was cold, some sort of small engine or pump was running but it wasn’t close to him, and he was restrained on a flat metal surface that tasted of rubbing alcohol. There were smells as well, beyond the stench of his own blood, sweat, and fear. There was a dank, chemical smell; wet and tangy on the air.

The smell tugged at something in the back of his mind. Biology class and the frogs so long dead, so steeped in formaldehyde, that they’d lost most of their color. Blood, rot, and formaldehyde. Arkin’s stomach lurched, pushing up into his throat. _Am I in a morgue?_ The thought raised goose bumps over his limbs and up his spine. _Why_ would he be in a morgue, where would this morgue even be, and how would he have gotten into it? Morgues, at least in TV shows, were always locked and guarded. You couldn’t just sneak into one. …And why would the masked freak want to sneak him into a morgue? It didn’t make any sense. No, it didn’t make any sense at all…but then again, _none_ of this made any sense. This whole night felt like a fever dream.

 A distant sound drew his attention, a faint clinking of metal, a soft jingling. Keys, but not near him…Outside a door? A door, but where… He could hear scrapping sounds, a creak; the door opening. Then the room shifted from pitch black to blinding white. Arkin twisted his head, pushing his face under the meat of his right arm, hiding his eyes even as he clenched them shut against the sudden intrusion of light. The light was unforgiving, blue white without a trance of warmth to it, reminding him of hospitals and stern doctors who cared for nothing but pay checks.  He could hear footsteps, heavy, booted footsteps coming closer but he couldn’t look up. He didn’t _want_ to look up, he didn’t want to see. He didn’t _need_ to see. He knew who’d brought him here.

The footsteps stopped next to him, beside him and whatever he was tied to. An exam table most likely. Was that what they called the tables in the morgue, the tables with the drains set into them, the tables that they carved open dead bodies on? _Autopsy tables. It’s an autopsy table, only I’m not dead._ Arkin thought numbly.  His tense body jerked as a sudden snapping sound, like a rubber band, that cracked through the still air. The bonds that held him did not give even slightly at his panicked jerk, but he could have sworn he heard a soft, breathy chuckle. A gentle touch brushed down Arkin’s side, stroking over his ribs and curling down to tickle over the edge of his belly where it pressed into the table; the touch was smooth, silky, not skin. Arkin bucked away from that touch, gritting his teeth in pain as his wounded belly pulled against the metal; the lips of the cut had become stuck to the autopsy table with tacky, drying blood.

The hand slid up from his side to rest on the small of his back, pushing him down more firmly against the table in a silent command. In the darkness he’d been too focused on trying to tell where he was to notice the most obvious thing about his environment, but the feeling of latex on his flesh made him quickly aware of one very concerning thing. He was naked.  Arkin bucked against the hand, his teeth grinding against one another as his blood caked stomach pulled free of the table, tearing the clotted wound open once more. He gasped sharply in pain, feeling fresh blood bubbling up around the scab. Even gritting his teeth offered him no distraction from the pain; the fresh, raw hole in his gums throbbed hotly. The latex covered hand pressed more firmly down on his lower back, digging into his spine. Weak from blood loss, Arkin collapsed back on the table, biting down on the inside of his cheek to hold back a sound of pain as the freshly opened wound rubbed against the parts of the old scab that had remained stuck to the table.

Arkin twisted his head as much as he could, peering over his shoulder with one eye. Black masked, the Collector loomed over him, one hand holding him down. His beetle-black eyes gleamed wetly in the bright overhead light. The Collector peered at Arkin, his lips twisted up behind his mask in what could have been a sadistic smirk or a grimace of annoyance. He pressed down harder on Arkin’s back, grinding his belly against the table. “S-stop!” Arkin gasped, his throat raw and sore from screaming. He’d screamed a lot in the trunk with a TV playing somewhere outside in the real world. In the dark, in pain, closed in like an animal in a trap, it had been so easy to be brave. If the Collector had opened the trunk, he would have come flying at his face, ready to fight. But that was hours ago, or was it days, and he wasn’t in the trunk any more. He was in the open, exposed, helpless, and so very tired.  The tremble in his voice made him feel sick inside and as soon as the word left his lips he instantly wished he could grab it from the air and suck it back in.

There was a time to be brave and fight, because there was nothing else you could do. But running his mouth when there was no chance of fighting was stupid, he’d learned that before, back in prison. Sometimes you just had to grit your teeth and bear it. The Collector tilted his head at the word, regarding Arkin with those cold, unreadable eyes for a moment before he drew his long silver knife from his belt with his free hand, holding it up for the thief to see. The blade caught the light and threw it back, flickering across Arkin’s face. His heart turned to ice in his chest and he shook his head quickly, eyes bulging; he didn’t know how much blood he’d lost already but he would need all he had left to escape. “No! No, I’m sorry. Please.” He gasped the words, choking on the taste of them. In the back of his mind, Arkin worried about his splayed legs and the targets their openness might present to a madman with a knife. The Collector continued to stare down at him, holding the knife aloft before he lowered it, tracing a shallow, stinging cut along Arkin’s hip, adding to the myriad of cuts already covering his flesh.

Despite the sharp, cold pain, Arkin forced himself to hold perfectly still, even going so far as to lay his head back down on the table. He was a survivor. He’d survived the house by wits and daring and knowing when to fight and when to hide. He couldn’t fight or hide now, all he could do was play along and look for an opportunity. His submission seemed to please the Collector who drew the blade away from his flesh but laid it on a rolling metal table nearby as a warning. With his head tipped to the side, Arkin could see more of the room. It _did_ look like a morgue…but he couldn’t see any sliding drawers for corpses to go into and the tiles on the walls were hardly proof of anything. The bits of equipment he could see, gurneys and autopsy tables, medical lights and surgical equipment, were all portable and the Collector had already shown that he was adept at…DIY home projects. Arkin’s bound arms blocked much of his view, but he didn’t raise his head again for fear it might be taken as another sign of defiance.

The Collector removed his hand almost reluctantly from the thief’s back, giving the patch of unmarked skin a startlingly gentle caress as he withdrew. Arkin could hear him moving at his side but he couldn’t tell what he was doing and the dread of the unknown was making him feel like throwing up. Arkin jumped when that latex gloved hand touched his back again, once more a surprisingly gentle touch, this time between his shoulder blades. He knew that his skin was ripped open not far from the madman’s hand where those wicked hooks had been buried in him. Distantly, he wondered if the Collector wanted to further torture those open wounds and the softness of his touch was meant to lull him into a false sense of security before the pain began. That seemed to be the case. Cold fire licked across Arkin’s upper back and he bucked again, crying out in pain and cursing in a ragged voice. “Jesus! Oh god, man! F-fuck!” He gasped, tears pricking at his eyes. It felt as though acid was running down in the raw, bloody wounds, stinging his nerves like a thousand angry hornets.

The hand between his shoulder blades pressed back down, firmly, and insistently, but not cruelly. The Collector, with gravity on his side, easily forced Arkin back down against the table and held him there. Arkin twisted his head, staring over his shoulder with one wide, pleading eye. He could smell rubbing alcohol once again but the smell was stronger now, fresh. He almost laughed in stunned relief. The cold wet feeling that left a burning trail over his scabbed, torn wounds suddenly made sense; the Collector was cleaning his back. As if to confirm that he wasn’t flaying him, the Collector held up a pair of surgical steel tongs which gripped a roll of blood stained gauze; the roll dripped a bead of clear fluid as Arkin looked on. The masked man rubbed the tips of fingers in a slow, soothing circle against the thief’s upper back. At the same time, he made a low shushing sound from behind his mask, his lips pursing at the slit in the leather. Arkin stared at him, confused and more horrified by this apparent change of demeanor than he’d been by the threat of the knife.

The blade he expected, sadism he expected, but this made no sense. If the Collector wanted to keep him, as his name implied, he didn’t need to be _kind_ for that. Seeing that his wounds didn’t become infected and kill him before the mad man could fully enjoy tormenting him made sense. But why bother being _nice_ about it? The Collector drew the roll of alcohol soaked cotton out of view and tapped Arkin between the shoulders once before the stinging, burning pain returned. The convict arched up against the hand out of reflex but kept himself from crying out again. Knowing what was happening made it easier to bear the pain. Seemingly in response to the lack of a true struggle, the Collector stroked Arkin’s back, running his fingers down the thief’s spine as though he were petting a cat. Or a dog.

Arkin hated himself for almost relaxing into the touch. Approval was a good thing. So long as the killer was happy with him, he was more likely to keep him alive and undamaged, or so Arkin reasoned and hoped. There was a soft clink off to the side, metal against metal, and Arkin slowly raised his head, peering in the direction of the sound. The rolling table upon which the Collector’s knife set was longer than he’d first noticed. Metal basins clustered on the table alongside gauze pads and bandages, a white tube, and a bottle of alcohol. A single scalpel rested on a pad of gauze next to a curved needle that Arkin recognized from a past trip to the emergency room. The spool of fine black silk thread inside a plastic tube was also familiar. The Collector was going to stitch something on him shut. He dearly hoped it would be something that actually _needed_ stitches.

The gloved hand touched the back of his head, nudging it back down onto the table and Arkin complied, giving his craning neck some relief. Once more, he could hear the big man moving beside him but at least now he had an idea of what was to come. He wasn’t sure if he’d nodded off; time seemed to have moved forward without his notice. The next thing Arkin was aware of was the Collector tapping him once more on the back. The madman’s hand settled on his back, smoothing down the torn skin. Arkin braced himself for the pain to come, realizing that’s what the tap had signaled. “O-ok.” He muttered, clenching the fingers of his less injured hand; the other hand was swollen and bruised a dark purple, even trying to move the fingers sent agony shooting up to his shoulder.

The Collector had steady hands, at least, and closed the torn open flaps of skin with sure tugs. Without any sort of numbing agent the process hurt, but Arkin counted himself lucky. This was easily one of the least painful things the Collector had done to him so far. None the less, by the time he heard the needle drop into one of the metal basins, the convict was shaking from stress and slicked with sweat. He relaxed against the table with a soft sigh of strain, his tense muscles groaning in pain. Oh, how he wished he could just go to sleep and wake up home with all this a nightmare. Something cool and tingling licked over his fresh stitches, soothing the raw, jangling nerves there. It felt like ointment and vaguely he thought he could smell the clean medicinal scent of some antibacterial agent. Gauze pads were firmly pressed to his upper back and taped into place, each one covering a new cluster of stitches.

Arkin heard two rubbery snaps as the Collector removed his gloves and then there was a hand on his head, fingers curling in his blood and sweat caked hair, rubbing the back of his head almost fondly. After so much abuse, a kind gesture of approval felt better than it should have, even coming from such a monster. _If I keep him happy, he might be the one who lets his guard down._ The tense muscles in his neck relaxed slightly as the madman rubbed his scalp. He was so tired, he was just so tired. He wanted to rest and sleep and escape this nightmare for even just a little while. Arkin jerked his head when he felt himself relaxing, gritting his teeth. As his jaw contracted it sent a fresh burst of pain exploding through his skull from the bloody, empty socket where a molar had once been. _I don’t need his fucking approval. This is just some kind of sick fucking game._ He reminded himself. Those fingers tensed sharply in his hair, jerking his head back as he tried to move away.

The sharp motion send a hot wave of pain through Arkin’s neck and shoulders, causing his muscles to tense, which in turn pulled on the fresh stitches in his upper back. Was there _no_ part of him that didn’t hurt? The Collector pulled back on his hair, straining his head backwards until the back of his skull rested against his upper back. Hot needles of pain stabbed at his spine and gnawed into his neck. It felt as though his neck was going to snap, either that or his scalp might rip off, he wasn’t sure which would come first. The Collector loomed above him, his face entering Arkin’s field of vision. His ink black eyes were narrowed in a hard scowl of disapproval, like a parent about to scold a child…or someone who’s come home to their dog pissing on the new rug.

The Collector held Arkin’s head back, even as the thief began to squirm from discomfort, panting shallowly through between grit teeth. He was making a point, Arkin could tell that easily. The Collector was in control here and if he didn’t want to suffer, he would obey. Arkin tried to nod, but the grip on his hair wouldn’t allow him to move his head. His tongue flashed out, wetting his dry lips. “I’m sorry…” He muttered softly, under his breath, shame sinking into the pit of his belly. The fingers remained where they were and the Collector continued to stare down at him for a moment before giving a harder tug, pulling Arkin’s chest up off the table with the force of his yank. The thief swore in pain, gasping as his back and neck were forced into a cruel arch. “I’m sorry!” He yelped, his wide eyes pleading silently. “I’m sorry.” He said again, his voice louder and laced with not only pain and fear, but obvious remorse. Arkin wasn’t sorry that he’d fought against the Collector’s attempts to soothe him, he was just sorry he was being hurt because he fought.

Those beetle black eyes seemed to gleam from within as the Collector’s lips curled up in a small smile. He held Arkin’s head back a moment longer before slowly lowering it back onto the autopsy table. This time, when his fingers rubbed the thief’s sore scalp, Arkin lay still and allowed it, feeling lower than dirt and sick with shame. _Just fucking play along, just fucking play along. You **have** to survive this. _ He mentally cursed at himself, forcing some of the tension from his shoulders and arms. Arkin lay prone, offering no resistance as the Collector’s bare fingers rubbed through his hair, occasionally brushing the backs of his ears. His touch was slow, methodical, an attempt at soothing.

The repetitive motion of the killer’s finger on his scalp must have been more soothing than Arkin thought, or perhaps the blood loss and trauma were simply taking effect. Once more, time seemed to slip away from Arkin and when he started to notice his surroundings again, he was sure he’d nodded off. The Collector’s hands were on his belly, moving under him, pressing up against the tender flesh around the cut there. Arkin arched upwards without thinking, reacting to the pain. “God- What’re you doing?!” He hissed, jaw clenching.  Arkin tugged down reflexively on his arms, trying to lift himself with his elbows and they moved, wrists pulling back towards his head. He froze, already part way up on his elbows. Had the ties come loose? They must have, there was no way th-

The Collector made that soft, breathy chuckling sound again. His hands pulled back along Arkin’s skin, smearing him with fresh blood from the slice on his stomach. He gripped Arkin by the hips and tugged insistently. Arkin’s hopes dropped as his hips rose. The Collector knew he was free. Of course. He wasn’t the sort to leave knots loose. Rather than dangle by his hips from the murderer’s hands, Arkin quickly gathered his knees and elbows under himself, shakily holding himself up on all fours. Despite the mild rise in elevation, a rush of vertigo slammed through Arkin’s head, making him clench his eyes shut as he wavered, swaying slightly. Warm, soft cloth pressed into his side and a strong arm wrapped in the same fabric curled around his waist, holding him steady, preventing him from falling off the table.

He could hear the Collector, making low, soft sounds of comfort in the back of his throat as he held him. _What the fuck is going on here?_ Arkin thought dizzily, raising his head to stare up at the madman. The Collector was smiling at him, smiling like he was just so damn happy with Arkin. _Well, I wanted him to be happy enough to let his guard down…_ His eyes shot to the table, where the knife had been set, where the scalpel had lain but the table was gone, wheeled out of reach. The Collector’s arm tightened around his waist as his other hand settled on Arkin’s shoulder, pulling him upwards slowly but insistently. The thief allowed himself to be moved and maneuvered, too weak to resist. The Collector manipulated him like a doll, pulling him up onto just his knees only to guide them out from under him until he was sitting upright on the table.

Arkin leaned forward, shoulders hunching, and focused on breathing. Slowly, the dizziness began to fade, leaving only a pounding, throbbing agony that curled through his jaw and into his skull. He’d had his wisdom teeth taken out when he was younger, but there had been pills then to keep the pain away and the dentist had used more careful tools than a chisel and a hammer. The thief shivered, feet curling against one another as they hung towards the floor. It was tile, sort of green tinted and there were drains in it, little silver drains…But there was something off about the room. He glanced around, taking it in quickly. There were no body drawers, for one, although there was a large silver door, a walk-in freezer or refrigerator. But he didn’t think they used things like that in morgues…Maybe they did. In TV shows and movies though-

Arkin’s view was abruptly cut off by a wall of black as the Collector stepped in front of him, so close his knees brushed against the other man’s groin. The masked man held up a bottle of water, his calculating eyes studying the thief’s face. Arkin reached for the bottle with his good hand, leaving his injured hand curled in his lap. The Collector grabbed his wrist in a painfully tight grip, squeezing it hard enough that Arkin could practically feel his bones creaking under the pressure. He bit the inside of his cheek, sucking in a sharp breath. His hand was pushed firmly down against his bare thigh and the Collector held it there for a moment, maintaining his bruising grip. The thief looked from his held wrist to the water bottle in confusion and cleared his throat softly. _Ok…maybe he doesn’t like grabby hands…_

“Can I have some water, please?” Arkin rasped, his throat dry and sore. In the narrow slit of his mask, the Collector’s lips curled up in a small, pleased smile. His grip loosened, lingering for a moment, before he let Arkin’s wrist go. The Collector raised the bottle again and, before Arkin could reach for it, pressed the mouth of the bottle to the thief’s lips. He tensed slightly, disliking the idea of drinking from a bottle someone else was holding, like an invalid, like a child…But he could almost smell the water, fresh, cool water. His throat ached at the thought of it. Arkin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to drink….Since before he’d gone into the house? Arkin parted his lips demurely and tipped his head back ever so slightly. The Collector raised the end of the bottle, tipping a thin stream of wonderfully pure liquid into the thief’s parched, bitter tasting mouth.

Up until that moment, Arkin hadn’t been aware how wonderful water could taste. His toes actually curled in pleasure and he made a soft sound of relief, his brows drawing together in an expression of bliss. He gulped needfully, leaning forward to try and get more water faster but the Collector held the bottle level, controlling the flow of liquid. Those reflective, beetle black eyes watched Arkin’s face closely, his own lips parting in an enraptured expression. He drew the plastic bottle back, chuckling breathily as the thief leaned after it with a soft whine. The masked man clicked his tongue, tsking at the greediness of Arkin. The thief licked every trace of the water from his lips, watching the bottle as it was set aside with sharp focus. He didn’t notice the Collector moving again until a black latex covered hand rubbed through the short hair on the side of his head.

Arkin jumped, wincing as his sore muscles tensed, his eyes shooting back to the Collector. The masked man smiled at him approvingly as he pet him, his touch gentle once more. The thief glanced ruefully down to his sore wrist, the one that had been so recently grabbed; the skin was red and irritated looking with the promise of a bruise waiting to form. The masked man sighed, lips pursing in the gap of his mask. His expressive eyes seemed to suggest that he wasn’t really to blame for that. _There are rules. He’s teaching me the rules._ The thought made Arkin’s stomach clench. He would have preferred a lecture over the Collector’s decidedly hands on teaching style…maybe a nice a brief pamphlet or two? “How To Survive Being Collected”. The Collector’s hand slid down to his shoulder from his head, never breaking contact. He caressed the side of the thief’s neck and his thumb lingered on his collarbone, rubbing back and forth over it, before settling firmly over Arkin’s shoulder.

The Collector pressed back insistently, nudging Arkin back down towards the table. Fighting back the fear rising up in his chest, the thief allowed himself to be guided down. He could feel the wet, crusty scab that had peeled off his belly stuck to the metal, rubbing at his rump as he swiveled around, carefully drawing his legs up. Arkin jerked to a halt with his legs halfway up, his belly sucking in. It hurt so much to move, every motion tugged at his back or his belly or some hidden bruise or scrap. Every time he moved his legs it felt as though that knife was back in his stomach, carving him open. Eyes clenched shut, a soft whine of pain hissed out from between his teeth. God, this was so pathetic… Exhausted, ashamed, terrified, and aching all over, Arkin was startled to realize how close he was to crying. He hadn’t even _wanted_ to be in that damn house to begin with…

Warm latex pressed against his cheek, cupping his face tenderly, and Arkin’s tear filled eyes flashed open. The Collector was watching him. He stared at him, unblinking, lips parted, drinking in his misery. Furious at the Collector and even more furious with himself, Arkin sniffled and scrubbed his good hand across his stinging eyes. “The fuck’re you looking at?” He snapped before he could stop himself. “Everything fucking _hurts_. I don’t know if you noticed, man, but I’ve got a couple more holes in me than usual.” As soon as the words left his smart mouth, Arkin immediately regretted letting himself show a negative emotion that was _directed at_ the Collector. No doubt the retribution for such sass would be immediate and…memorable. Unbeknownst to Arkin, his facial expression almost immediately shifted to betray his fear and deep seated remorse for having such a hot head in such a decidedly delicate situation. The Collector studied him, bemused. The seconds ticked by and a trickle of nervous sweat itched slowly down between Arkin’s shoulderblades.

With a tiny smile crooking his lips, the masked man made a show of tilting his head this way and that, obviously looking at these aforementioned holes before nodding. Yep. What do you know, friends and neighbors? Would you just look at that, someone put some new holes in this man. A soft, breathy snicker slipped out of the Collector’s moist, pink lips. Nodding, nodding, the psychopath stepped up beside Arkin, right against him, and quickly laid his forearm against the tops of the thief’s thighs. Before Arkin could even think of resisting, the Collector pushed his hand, on Arkin’s shoulder, and his forearm, on Arkin’s legs, firmly and swiftly in opposite directions as though opening a stubborn folding cot. With a broken, cracking sob of pain, the naked man unfolded onto the table. Although his spine curved upwards in pain, Arkin offered little resistance as he was brutally put into the position the Collector desired.

Fire flushed across his belly and back and half a dozen other places, but those deepest wounds burned the brightest. On his back, naked and with his soft belly out in the open, there was nowhere to hide and Arkin was painfully aware of his exposed vulnerability. He gazed up at the Collector through teary eyes and waited for to be punished for mouthing off. Either moving him had been the punishment or Arkin’s spirited sass had been amusing enough, paired with his immediate and visible realization that he’d fucked up, to not warrant retribution. With the thief stretched out on the slab, the Collector returned to the tedious task of prepping his supplies. As he threaded a curved needle, his eyes continually darted towards the yawning cut in Arkin’s belly. Bright lines of glistening crimson ran across his pale skin like back roads on a map.

Breathing hard through his nose, Arkin waited and tried to hold still, tried to force his muscles to relax because he knew, keenly, that it would hurt so much worse if he were tense. When the alcohol soaked gauze swept over the edges of his belly cut, he keened pitifully despite himself. It burned inside his skin, between every microscopic layer, and it burned _badly_. But… _but_ he did not bow up off the table and make the Collector’s job harder. The less he moved, the less he would be hurt. An easy lesson to learn and one that had already been reinforced repeatedly. There was a pause and just as the pain began to fade, the Collector plunged a dull, jagged blade so hot it was freezing into Arkin’s belly and began to saw into him. Instinctively, Arkin tried to curl in on himself, only to have his knees meet an unyielding blockade in the form of the Collector’s shoulder. Tears streaming down his cheeks as he choked on a scream, Arkin stared down at his belly, expecting to see his own guts spilling out. …But no…no, it was still just the rubbing alcohol.

The Collector was busily rubbing the stinging, sanitizing gauze _inside_ his wound and yes, that made great sense considering there had been **cockroaches** in that wound, but still…it fucking hurt like a bitch. The burning agony seized Arkin in its teeth and shook him vigorously. As he and the Collector both knew well, some parts of the body were more sensitive and less tolerant of pain than others. The belly was one of those body parts. Arkin became aware of a soft sound which strained to be heard over his own ragged, panting half-sobs. As he worked, hunched over Arkin to keep him from curling his legs up over his belly like a grub, the Collector made soft, low shushing sounds in the back of his throat. Despite those attempts at soothing his captive, the masked man’s eyes were bright and flicked back and forth between Arkin’s agonized face and bleeding, trembling belly with avid and unwavering focus.

Shaking like a leaf with tears sparkling on his cheeks, Arkin allowed his legs to be guided back down onto the table as the Collector finished cleaning his belly. The frigid alcohol burn slowly faded away enough to allow him to sag against the surface of the table; the metal was slick with his blood and sweat. Tiny spams jerked along his jangled nerves as his body struggled to cope with the sensory overload of so much pain atop so much stress. The soft of metal clicking softly off to the side, like something small being picked up, sent a spike of dread so deep into his chest it hurt to breathe. The stitches…he’d forgotten about the stitches. Somewhere in the back of his mind, almost lost beneath the ragged sound of his own hoarse screams and half sobs, Arkin was proud of himself for not writhing or trying to run when that cold needle plunged into the tender, overstimulated flesh of his belly. Both hands gripped the edge of the table as his back arched upwards.

Between the pain of clenching his jaw and the pain in his stomach and the pain of gripping the table with his agonizingly injured hand, the universe decided Arkin had had enough. As he watched the needle curl into his flesh over and over again through a veil of tears, the edges of his vision began to blur and darken. Just before the back of his head smacked back into the table and his eyelids fluttered closed, Arkin distantly worried that the Collector might take him passing out as some sort of disobedience. And then nothing….

Crushing, stabbing pain pulsed methodically through Arkin’s hand and sent jabs of acute agony up his arm, all the way to his shoulder. A low, mewling moan slipped out of him, announcing his returning awareness before he could decide if he wanted to play opossum or not. The pulses of agony paused and died back to a low hum of tolerable suffering. “Shhhh, shhhh…” Warm latex stroked down his cheek, leaving a sticky trail in its wake while a low voice soothed him softly. Eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, Arkin rolled his aching head to the side and peered down towards his hand, the one that had been slammed in the window trap. The Collector sat on something below his line of sight, something low enough to put him almost eye level with Arkin’s hip. As the thief peered down at him with bleary, concerned eyes the masked man caressed his cheek one last time before resuming the practice which hurt so badly. Arkin’s hand was in the very end stages of being thoroughly and methodically wrapped in gauze.

Rolling his head to the other side, Arkin sluggishly raised his free hand and was only mildly surprised to find that it was also bandaged, albeit more lightly than his current hand was being wrapped. Carefully, he raised his head and peered down at his belly. Amid a swath of tacky, drying blood a patch of clean gauze covered the stitches he knew were there. Sighing softly, he lowered his head back down onto the table. There was still the niggling concern that the Collector might be cross, for some stupid reason, that he’d passed out. So long as he wasn’t being punished, Arkin wasn’t going to mourn not being conscious through several rounds of stitches to very tender parts of his body. In silence, he contemplated the dingy white popcorn ceiling high overhead. But looking up hurt his eyes. The lights were just too damn bright. Again, he rolled his head to the side. Thoughtfully, he studied the room. The door wasn’t impossibly far away…not really…

Unseen wheels squeaked sharply as the Collector stood and pushed away whatever he’d been seated on. As tall as a mountain, he loomed over Arkin with his head tilted inquisitively to the side. Barely daring to breathe, Arkin stared back up into those soulless, reflective eyes. A fine sheen of nervous sweat began to spring up on his pale, grimy, blood-streaked skin. The Collector moved suddenly and Arkin flinched back against the table before he stop himself. Again, that soft shushing sound. A thick arm, warm and steady, slipped under Arkin’s shoulders, above the new stitches but still too close for comfort. This position put the Collector’s neck right next to Arkin’s face as he leaned over him; he smelled surprisingly clean. A low groan broke free as that arm tensed and began to sit him upwards. As before, moving hurt…but he didn’t dare resist. As he was sat up, head swimming at the change in elevation, the Collector’s free hand grabbed onto the outside of his far knee and swung his legs off the table.

As before, Arkin hunched forward with his head hanging low as he waited for the room to stop spinning. While he slouched, the Collector grabbed his wrist and pulled his forearm out straight. It wasn’t until he saw the evenly spaced cuts on the underside of his arm that Arkin realized _which_ arm the Collector was holding onto. His heart skipped a beat…then another… But there was no pause in the motions of his captor. Just as he had with the other wounds, the masked man carefully cleaned the entire swath of flesh around and including the cuts with rubbing alcohol. Biting down on his lower lip, Arkin smothered any sounds of pain. He’d given the psycho _more_ than enough of that already. Some queasy part of him wondered if the Collector actually got off on the sound of him in pain. He didn’t want to know the answer to that question; he was pretty sure he already did. Exhausted, Arkin watched as his arm was treated and bandaged with dull eyes.

From his new vantage point, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before.

The red trunk lay open on the floor, too close to the table for his comfort. If he went back in that box, he didn’t know when, if ever, he’d come back out. What if the Collector kept him in there until his strength sapped away and his muscles turned to jelly? How would he escape if he couldn’t fight? Cold fear settled into the pit of his belly. Finished with his arm, the Collector followed Arkin’s gaze and shrugged noncommittally, as though going back into the box was a given, as though Arkin should have expected that. Clicking his tongue softly against his lips, the masked man gradually pulled the thief’s attention away from the box and back onto himself. One of his large hands was bare. It looked so strange without its black glove… Two round, red pills lay in the palm of his hand. Immediately, Arkin recognized generic Tylenol. Wide and uncertain, his bright eyes flicked back and forth between the Collector’s face and the pills. Without thinking, he raised his hand to reach for them- But before he could finish the gesture, Arkin stopped himself and yanked his hand back.

The Collector made a pleased sound in the back of his throat and vigorously rubbed the side of Arkin’s head as though he were petting a dog. He could almost hear the words ‘good boy’, though he was certain the big man hadn’t said a thing. In one hand, the Collector held the pills. With the other, he uncapped and picked up the bottle of water. Arkin waited, like a good dog, until the pills were presented to him…still in the flat palm of the Collector’s hand. With a dubious, reluctant expression he looked from the pills he very much wanted to the man holding them. Those inky eyes watched him with a hint of impatience. Swallowing back his pride, Arkin hunched forward and pressed his lips to the smooth, warm palm of the Collector’s hand. With lips and tongue, he manipulated both of the slightly sweet pills into his mouth; a soft, breathy sound eased out some where above his head as his tongue lapped against skin.

Quickly, Arkin sat back up and opened his mouth to eagerly accept the water bottle as it was offered to him. He wanted to swallow the pills before they melted on his tongue…and he wanted to wash the salty taste of the other man’s skin out of his mouth. As before, the Collector kept careful control of the water bottle and thus he kept careful control of Arkin. As he swallowed the thoughtfully offered pain killers, a flash of light thrown by the surgical table strobed into his eyes. Snap. That fast Arkin knew how he was going to escape. A soft, needy sound broke past his lips as the Collector started to take the water bottle away and, with a look of mild surprise, the bigger man paused. His voice husky and hoarse, Arkin whispered, “Could I have s’more…please?” He didn’t have to fake discomfort at asking something so politely from a serial killer and monster. That discomfort was real. …But so was his need. Only, he didn’t need the water, not exactly.

After a moment of consideration, the Collector permissively returned the bottle. Eagerly, Arkin lunged forward to meet it and his face struck the bottle slightly on the side. The smooth plastic slipped out of the Collector’s grasp, bounced off Arkin’s knee, and hit the floor. Immediately, Arkin cringed back. “ ‘m sorry…’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…” He whispered hurriedly, his voice shaking and the fear was real. Instead of striking him, the masked man squeezed Arkin’s knee with one hand in a gesture that was _almost_ reassuring and for a half a second, the thief doubted his idea. And then the Collector was bending down to pick up the water bottle from the floor.

The speed of his sudden forward movement almost caused him to fall off the table. The tools and metal basins clattered loudly to the floor. Quick as a snake, the Collector whipped back up and reached out as though to steady Arkin, as though he really thought Arkin was going to fall and wanted to keep that from happening… The faintly confused, almost betrayed look in his eyes might have made Arkin feel a _little_ bad if he hadn’t been too focused on getting out of this _alive_. Beneath the gauze on his back, the new stitches ached and pulled as Arkin swung the metal tray from the top of the surgical table down against the side of the Collector’s head as hard as he could. If this were a movie, the resulting _BONG_ would have been comical. It wasn’t. The Collector fell over onto his hip as the force of the blow snapped his head to the side. Without pausing, Arkin dropped the tray and shoved off the table. His feet struck the floor…and then the tiles were rushing up to meet him. As the room spun drunkenly, Arkin fell to his knees; the corner of one tile bit into his knee hard enough to draw blood. Reeling but very determined to not be in the room when the inhuman man regained his senses, Arkin staggered to his feet and hobbled naked across the room.

The rough, rusty door bit into his shoulder as he briefly fell against it and then he was grabbing onto the door knob, twisting, yanking…and nothing happened. Panting from pain, terror, and nausea, Arkin yanked on the door knob frantically as his eyes jerked and jumped around searching for a _reason_ why the door was refusing to let him leave. …Oh. The keys…he’d heard keys when the Collector came into the room. He thought they were for the outside of the door, and they might have been, but the inside of the door locked with a key as well. And Arkin didn’t have the key. He knew who did, though. With the low, desperate whine of a trapped animal, he spun around to face the room.

Less than four inches separated him from the Collector.

Before he could scream, those big hands grabbed onto the sides of his head and slammed him back against the door. Arkin’s skull struck metal with a dull, hollow crack and stars exploded behind his eyes. Suddenly too weak to stand, his legs crumpled under him and he would have fallen if the Collector hadn’t still been holding onto him. With more care than he might have expected, Arkin was lowered down and gingerly laid out on the cold tile. Blinking hard, half swooning, he stared up at the blurry image of the Collector looming over him. Angry…he’d seen the Collector angry. The light blazing in those black eyes wasn’t just anger, it was something more. Before he could puzzle out what it was, his air supply cut off with brutal efficiency. Ineffectively, he pawed at the steady, strong hands clutching his throat and thumbing down on his windpipe.

A heavy weight settled onto his chest, crushing him down into the floor, as the Collector knelt on his chest. Eyes locked, Arkin struggled to get free and breathe while the masked man methodically strangled him. Unable to gasp, unable to plead or even whimper, tears rolled down Arkin’s cheeks. Inside the stone tomb of his chest, his lungs were on fire, blazing with desperate pain. His short nails scrapped over the Collector’s hands but left only pink scratches in their wake. Before his eyes rolled back into his skull, Arkin had a single moment of clarity.

_He almost looks sad._


	2. The Trunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arkin tried to escape. That was a bad idea. The Collector plans to teach Arkin just how bad that idea really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a panic attack related to PTSD from a past sexual assault and allusions to that assault, some fairly gross vomiting/forced vomiting with the accompanying fluids, semi-accurate forced medical procedures, and some homophobic slurs. Oh, and something that doesn't need to be stitched shut gets stitched shut. 
> 
> Dead dove.
> 
> This chapter has been edited to correct some medical issues. There are now two or so new paragraphs near the end. If you read this chapter before 7:40 EST, 10/2/2018 then you might want to check those new edits out. Sorry for the trouble.

~***~

Blurry and unfocused, consciousness returned in jittering flickers like a film projector slowly turning on and warming up. Pain. The first sensation seemed almost familiar by now. Perhaps he was just destined to spend the rest of his life waking up confused and suffering; he would have hoped not. But at the moment, there was no room for hope nor even higher thought within the rising panic of his animal brain. The tendons and muscles running from his wrists down into his shoulders burned with a dull, constant ache somewhere between the day after working too hard and what he imagined being left on the rack must feel like. The first flicker of true fear came when he realized that once more his arms were stretched above his head and bound at the wrists. Had he been thrown back onto the slab in the makeshift morgue to await some grisly punishment for his escape attempts?

The room wasn’t pitch black, not like the first time he woke, just dim.

Dull, paint-peeling walls and a dirty concrete floor came into focus. Not the morgue then… But not helpful either. With a low, soft groan in his raw throat, Arkin’s head lolled back between his shoulders so his wide, nervous eyes could scan the room for the one thing he least wanted to see. An inky shadow towered above him, eyes glittering brightly even in the low light. No words, no actions sprang to mind. Shivering, the thief stared up at the big man looming behind him. The height of the Collector over him helped to orient him to his own position…and he didn’t particularly like it. Arkin’s rump rested in the space between his heels as he knelt on some hard, leathery surface with his arms extended straight above his head. Without breaking eye contact, not daring to look away, he tugged down on his arms and winced in immediate regret. Although pain wasn’t as good as a clock, the singing hurt in his wrists suggested they’d been holding up the weight of his body for some time now.

A cool draft of air blowing lazily across the floor raised goosebumps over his pale, grimy, blood-streaked skin and Arkin trembled against his will. Still naked then…

The Collector circled around him, carrying a tangle of leather straps in one hand. Immediately, Arkin’s head snapped back forward in an attempt to keep the bigger man in his sight. The warmth that radiated off the darkly clothed body as it knelt beside him was painfully welcome in the chilly room, despite who was providing that warmth. Roughly, with no trace of their former firm caution and care, the masked man’s hands yanked Arkin’s thighs further apart. With a grunt of surprise, Arkin dropped his head to watch but he didn’t resist…not yet. Resisting hadn’t worked out terribly well the last time he decided to just go for it and let panic and fear take the wheel. Cool straps of supple black leather were threaded around both of his thighs and tightened with sharp, efficient jerks that chafed at his skin. It was almost a comfort when the Collector shoved a finger under each strap and tested the tightness, tested to see if the straps were likely to restrict blood flow. So…whatever was going to happen, he wanted Arkin to still have his legs…maybe.

Two fingers impatiently slapped against the outside of the thief’s leg, just under the subtle curve of his ass. With a soft huff of strain, Arkin immediately raised himself up slightly and in doing so assisted the Collector in wrapping matching leather bands around his calves. A heavy hand slammed down onto his shoulder and shoved him carelessly back down until his rump was almost kissing the floor between his feet. Arkin bit back a cry of pain at the sudden motion and the force with which the Collector struck him. Alright…alright…Clearly, he was going to have to work to earn back what little kindness and trust he’d previously had. And he wanted- no. He _needed_ that kindness and trust if he was going to escape. For now, it made sense to go along to get along. Good in thought, harder in practice, and Arkin found himself immediately wondering if he’d made the right call when the Collector clipped the bands on both thighs and calves together such that Arkin couldn’t have extended his legs if he’d wanted to. Arkin’s assistance wasn’t required as the Collector fitted stiff, black leather cuffs around his elbows and strapped them into place. Silver rings glittered on the outside of the cuffs. While the thief couldn’t unbend his knees, the cuffs made certain that he couldn’t bend his elbows.

With the rapid efficiency of an overworked airport employee handling luggage, the masked man shoved Arkin’s knees apart and jammed a bar of icy steel between them. Either end of the bar clipped onto some mechanism on the inside of the thigh bands to keep the thief from closing his legs at all. A matching bar added weight to the cuffs on his elbows. A gnawing dread rose to a low boil in the pit of his belly. While the Collector turned away from him, Arkin glanced around the room. Blank. Empty. …No, not _entirely_ empty. Immediately to Arkin’s left a trunk stood open on its end.

Taller and wider than the battered red trunk that had ferried him here, this trunk was covered in ominous black leather and lined with the same material. …Just like the flat platform he was kneeling on. A sudden spike of terror impaled Arkin, freezing his breath in his lungs. The thing upon which he knelt was _connected_ to the trunk, an _extension_ of the trunk. Unfolding metal arms ran from the leather beneath his knees back to the trunk. Before he could consider some hasty, ill-advised action born of pure dumb animal fear and the incredibly strong desire to **not** go back into that trunk, the Collector was back with him. Click, click. The straps clipped onto the platform under him. Click. The bar clipped onto the platform as well. Arkin’s head snapped up and he fixed the Collector with a pleading stare; he could feel the tears in his eyes and hated himself for it, but he hated the trunk more. The big man stared back at him coldly, unsympathetically.

“You fuckin’ kidnapped me, man…What the hell’d you expect me to do?” Arkin rasped through dry, split lips. He didn’t stop to weigh the worth of his words or the wisdom of speaking them. Being punished for trying to escape wasn’t _surprising_. The Collector had been quick to show him the price of disobedience as the shallow cut over his hip could attest to. But it was so damn frustratingly _unfair_ for this crazy prick to expect gratitude from people he’d tortured and kidnapped.

For a long time, the Collector crouched in silence and simply stared at him. Considering, perhaps… The flesh warmed latex of his glove stung as he roughly, condescendingly pat-slapped Arkin’s cheek twice. As the masked man buckled a new strap around the thief’s waist, below the gauze patch on his belly, each motion spoke of the restrained anger lurking just under the surface, anger Arkin had woken when he tried to escape and anger he continued to fuel by speaking rashly. Still…a finger slipped under the waist strap and wiggled back and forth to test the tightness. Something brittle and small in Arkin’s chest ached sharply.

Tense moments passed in silence as the Collector stood and moved away. When Arkin turned his head to watch, the masked man was quick to correct him with a stinging backhand. Cringing against the humiliating burn in his cheek, the smaller man turned his head back forward and slumped. In silence that was both strangely sorrowful and petulantly angry by turns, Arkin waited for the rest of this punishment to play out. The subtle sounds of cloth shifted _right behind_ him, but the return of that body heat was more noticeable than the sounds. One hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing, holding him in place…and that was more terrifying than it had any right to be. What was he being held still for and where was the **other** hand?! A soft, disconcerted growl crept half way up Arkin’s throat before jumping out as a yelp of shocked indignation. Disgustingly slick and startlingly cold, one of the Collector’s latex covered fingers rubbed over Arkin’s tight, clenched opening. The finger smeared a glossy trail of nauseatingly thick lubricant liberally over his skin.

Heart pounding in his ears, threatening to crawl up from his chest and out of his throat, Arkin threw himself forward against the straps which held him in place. The leather groaned, but didn’t give. Flushed and freezing at the same time, tears blurred his vision in a sudden rush. He couldn’t breathe…couldn’t breathe… Insistently, the Collector’s finger wormed against him. It pushed roughly at his opening, demanding and entitled. A strong shudder shot up Arkin’s spine as bile filled the back of his throat. _Oh god, oh god, oh god please no._ Teeth grit, body still straining forward, still straining _away_ , Arkin was unaware of the low, pathetic whine which rattled endlessly in the back of his throat. Unwilling to submit, to surrender _that_ much, he clenched his ass as tightly as possible…And when the Collector’s superior strength and leverage won out against his muscles, his efforts to keep the masked man _out_ only made the sudden entry hurt more.

A wretched cry, somewhere between a sob and a hushed scream, burst out of Arkin. Every muscle in his body trembled, rock hard and tensed. He could _feel_ that warm, slippery finger squirming inside him. It wriggled deeper into him, smearing his hole with slickness, stretching him open. Arkin knew what would follow…Knew and dreaded it. Behind the thief, the Collector cocked his head to the side.

The rim of Arkin’s ass burned and stung as a second finger roughly shoved into him. Panting, struggling to breathe and failing, he tried to calm himself down. It wasn’t as though fighting was going to do anything but piss the Collector off more… If he just… _let_ it happen…it would be over sooner… The thick fingers inside him forcefully spread and stretched Arkin’s unwilling ass. Behind him, the soft shushing sounds from the morgue room stared up again…even though he hadn’t done anything _right_ or anything the Collector wanted. A broken sob of relief shuddered out of Arkin as the fingers slipped backwards out of his ass. Tears ran freely down his cheeks but that didn’t matter. It didn’t. It didn’t matter because- The Collector’s fingers tightened on his shoulder moments before something thick and rounded pressed up against his recently violated hole.

Something in Arkin snapped, figuratively speaking. Letting it happen wasn’t an option. He couldn’t…he couldn’t!

“Get the fuck off me, you fucking faggot!” The thief half screamed, half sobbed as he strained forward against his bindings. “Fuck off you fucking sonofabitch! Get the fuck **off me**!” Demanding and threatening his words were only half coherent, but ‘faggot’, ‘fag’, and ‘queer’ made frequent appearances, as did ‘pussy’ and ‘bitch’ in reference to the Collector, not himself. Arkin yelled himself hoarse. He yelled until his voice gave out and his curses dissolved into miserable hiccupping sobs. Behind him, the sounds of comfort had stopped; they stopped the minute he uttered the last word of his first sentence. Still just as exhausted and worn out as he’d been in the morgue, Arkin slumped forward, pulling his arms taut against the padded, funnel shaped leather bindings which buckled around his wrists. The hard object pressing against his ass hadn’t pulled away…but it hadn’t gone further towards fucking into him either.

Without warning, an unyielding column thicker than both of the Collector’s fingers forced its way into Arkin’s body. It shoved through his clenching outer rim and drove deep into him. The thief wordlessly cried out in shrill, panicked agony. He was going to be bleeding, torn open…it couldn’t hurt that _much_ and not bleed…You couldn’t just expect someone to take something that big with so little preparation; the Collector expected it. The firm thing shoving his walls apart and digging deeper and deeper inside him abruptly widened. Without pause, the Collector forced Arkin’s shaking, quivering body to spread open wider and swallow the bulge in the shaft. It popped into through the thief’s aching rim and lodged behind that tight ring of abused muscle. The impossibly strange dimensions of the _thing_ inside him didn’t matter. Impossible seemed to be a very _relative_ term lately.

Bonelessly, Arkin dangled by his wrists, no longer actively pulling against his bonds. He did not sob, but his breath hitched and shuddered unevenly and tears ran down his face. A numb horror lay heavily upon him, dulling his senses and slowing his thoughts. It wasn’t bad enough that the Collector had tortured him, kidnapped him, _humiliated_ him…no. He had to..to… Arkin blinked rapidly, his brow furrowing in confusion as the Collector stepped into sight. The masked man stared down at him intensely as he pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. Lips parted slightly, Arkin tentatively shifted and then immediately froze. Whatever he’d mistaken for part of the Collector was still inside him, locked there, uncomfortable but not _painful_ , not really…It wasn’t the worst thing to have happened…it could have hurt more…it could have been something else. “Wh…” Embarrassed, the thief ineffectively swiped his wet cheek against the inside of his arm in an attempt to clean his own tears off his face. “What the fuck is that?” His voice was painfully small, just shy of pleading. “I thought you were-“ As something sharp shifted in those beetle black eyes, Arkin snapped his jaw shut.

It was pretty fucking clear what he’d _thought_ the Collector was going to do to him. And for some reason, the Collector did **not** seem like he wanted Arkin to say what he’d thought aloud.

The embers of fear and dread in his belly fanned into a crackling blaze as he remembered how the Collector had responded to the last time he taunted him with insults aimed at his sexuality and masculinity. Protectively, Arkin’s shoulders hunched forward. “Fuck, man… ‘m fuckin’ sorry…” His voice was barely a whisper, but the Collector heard him nonetheless. Slowly, the big man knelt down in front of him, too close for comfort, way too close. Swallowing hard, Arkin shook his head and forced himself to speak again. He’d already spat on what the masked man probably saw as generous kindness and betrayed his trust in order to attack him and try to escape…If the Collector had been pissed when Arkin woke up, he wasn’t sure he had a word strong enough for how furious the larger man probably was now. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t. ‘m sorry, I was s-“ Even the threat of violence and mutilation wasn’t enough to compel him to finish that word. It was bad enough that he was apologizing to a serial killer who had just shoved _something_ into him for god only knew what hideous reason. …But those sounds, those little attempts to comfort that the Collector had started making again _while_ he was shoving the thing into his ass stuck in the back of his mind.

Long, awkward seconds ticked by while the Collector stared unblinking into his eyes. Arkin jumped, forcing his ass to squeeze around the long bulb crammed into it, as the Collector’s hand suddenly came up holding something metallic which caught the light and reflected it. It wasn’t a weapon though…at least it didn’t seem to be…. The long thin metal tube looked ominously familiar, but in a distant way. Silent and still, Arkin’s eyes followed the Collector’s hands as the masked man applied medical grade lubricant to the tip of the metal shaft and set it aside on a sterile looking pad of gauze on a sterile looking surgical tray; the metal of the tray bowed inward slightly as though someone had hit it with something hard. …Or hit something hard with it. Like, say, a person’s skull. Oh. Dull, bemused pride tugged at him. Arkin hadn’t realized just how damn hard he’d swung the surgical tray. Concern quickly overwhelmed the pride. How the _fuck_ had the Collector taken a steel tray to the head hard enough to warp the metal and not been knocked down for more than a minute or two? A blow that hard should have knocked the big man right the fuck out…

Arkin jumped as the Collector’s fingers gently, gingerly wrapped around his flaccid cock. His eyes jerked down in sharp, vivid alarm, but there was no _immediate_ threat visible. With unsettlingly practiced ease, the masked man worked Arkin’s foreskin back with one hand and applied pressure just _so_ to the underside of his glans. With a soft wince, Arkin watched his cum slit open obligingly as the Collector’s thumb pressed up against the bottom of his cockhead. With efficient motions, like a man working on a car, the Collector smeared that clinging, overly slick lubricant to the tip of his prick, paying careful attention to Arkin’s urethra.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me….” Arkin breathed as the tip of his cock and the long metal tube clicked together in his brain. Briefly, the Collector glanced up at him with dark amusement gleaming in his inky eyes. Already walking on rotten ice, Arkin held _perfectly fucking still_ while the rounded tip of the catheter nudged against his cum slit.  Dull, hot pain radiated outwards as the Collector fed the metal down _into_ his cock. Unable to look away, the thief watched in horrified fascination as the metal glided into his flesh. The initial pain weakened to discomfort quickly…but there was a sensation under the discomfort that he refused to even vaguely consider. Thankfully, the sudden insistent pressure in his groin spared him from any…embarrassment that might have arisen. Holding both the catheter and Arkin’s impaled cock in one hand, the Collector tore off strips of medical tape from a dispenser on the sterile tray and wrapped them around the base of the tube and the tip of Arkin’s prick. Those warm, silky smooth latex covered fingers lingered for half a beat longer than they needed to on the thief’s cock and gave it a single furtive squeeze before letting go. As far as Arkin knew, however, that squeeze was related to making sure the catheter was seated correctly inside him.

It stood to reason that if the thin tube holding his cock open was a medical device, then the thing in his ass might be as well. Which…was concerning in and of itself. As far as Arkin knew, catheters were used for people who couldn’t get to a bathroom by themselves…like people in comas. Fearfully, his eyes darted from his impaled cock to the trunk and then up to the Collector who still knelt right in front of him, in his personal space. Slowly, almost mockingly, the masked man followed the path of Arkin’s eyes. An insidious smile filled up the slit in the mask. Wordlessly, the thief shook his head in slow denial as his heart thudded against his ribs. As the masked man stood he pulled off his dirtied gloves and cast them aside. Bare fingers, warm and rough, briefly ghosted over Arkin’s hair…but they did not pet him as they had in the morgue. That privilege had been revoked. There was only the suggestion of contact, and then the Collector was moving away. He circled around behind Arkin again and disappeared out of sight.

Shaking, Arkin began to turn his head, to keep the killer in his sights, but quickly remembered the backhand he’d gotten the last time he did that. When his head swung back to face forward, he _thought_ he heard the softest hum of approval from somewhere behind him. It was impossible to be still. Adrenaline and fear raced through his veins, encouraging him to run and hide when it was impossible to do either. How long was the Collector planning to leave him in the trunk? Long enough to make a catheter worthwhile, apparently. Arkin’s earlier fear that the Collector would leave him in the trunk until he was too weak to escape seemed very, very real now. Half a dozen pleas ran through his mind only to die on his lips. Like a deer in the headlights, any action seemed impossible, except trembling.

Once more, the Collector returned with fresh gloves on. In one hand, he carried a long piece of thick, clear plastic tubing. Arkin swallowed hard. Was that what a feeding tube looked like? On TV feeding tubes were thin, but a feeding tube would make sense when paired with the catheter and…whatever the fuck the other thing was. Again, he shook his head slowly. “H-hey…” The word whispered out of his mouth. A slight tilt of the Collector’s head showed that he was listening…But…but… Terrified, exhausted, and suffering Arkin had no compelling argument even though he knew he desperately needed one. The only way out of this was if the big man _chose_ not to put him in the trunk…and if he’d been planning on putting Arkin back in the red trunk after he’d been good, it didn’t seem likely that the thief could avoid the trunk now. “I’ll…be good…” The words tasted sour and bitter on his tongue. Tears blurred his eyes. “Gimme…gimme another shot, ok?” To his shame and anger, his voice cracked as those hot tears ran down his cheeks, cutting clean lines through the blood and grime.

“P-please…” The trunk was death. If he went in that trunk, he was as good as fucking dead.

Slowly, the Collector crouched down in front of him, close enough for Arkin to feel the coveted warmth of his body. Lips slightly parted in what almost looked like awe, he studied the crying thief. A gentle hand cupped Arkin’s cheek and a thumb stroked under his eye, gathering up his tears. For a moment, the smaller man dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, the Collector was going to grant him reprieve. He should have known better. The hand on his cheek drew back slowly, reluctantly, as the masked man shook his head in denial. His beetle black eyes scowled at Arkin as though he didn’t _want_ to do this. _Clearly_ , he was only doing what had to be done. Arkin stared at him in mingled disbelief and vague resignation. Had he really expected that to work? No…no, not really. Even if the Collector was _acting_ like he didn’t want to do this, he was still _going_ to do it. Maybe if…well, there were half a dozen maybe if’s. Maybe if he hadn’t attacked the masked man, maybe if he hadn’t called him a faggot and several other things he knew would piss him off… Well, really, none of this would be happening if the crazy prick hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place.

Pain dug sharply into the joints of Arkin’s jaw suddenly and unexpectedly. A gasping snarl wrenched free from his throat as his mouth was roughly forced open like a dog at the vet. The Collector’s fingers braced against the thief’s jaw as he shoved the smaller man’s head back. Panting raggedly, Arkin stared up at the dirty, cracked ceiling overhead. His mouth was open. He’d seen the tubing. There was little doubt in his mind as to what was going to happen next… The cold, thick plastic rammed across his tongue and scrapped the roof of his mouth raw. Reflexively, his hands clenched and unclenched as he twisted and yanked on his wrists in an attempt to get free so he could grab the masked man’s hands and make him stop or at least fucking slow down. Bile filled the back of Arkin’s mouth and burned against his raw tongue as the tube bulled over his gag reflex. The tube jerked back and the Collector yanked Arkin’s head down.

Clear fluid, tinted with just a hint of artificial red from the generic Tylenol he’d been given a life time ago, ran out of his mouth and splattered against his bare chest. Still, there was no reprieve. As soon as his rasping, bubbling breath had evened out slightly, the Collector slammed his head back and the tube returned. Once again, Arkin choked around the hard plastic. A soft, hissing growl of frustration came from somewhere just above him. Whimpering, Arkin coughed and spat as best he could without being able to move his jaw as once more the big man forced his head back down. At the edge of his vision, the clear tube dropped onto the sterile tray. The taste of latex filled his mouth as two thick fingers jammed past his cracked lips. Beads of blood welled upon his lips and smeared onto the Collector’s glove. Reflexively, Arkin’s entire body curved and bowed forward as a ripple of nausea rolled up along his spine. The pads of the Collector’s fingers unsympathetically pressed down on the thief’s gag reflex.

Heaving and coughing, Arkin watched through a veil of tears as thin, watery bile spurted out of his mouth and onto both his own torso and the Collector’s hand. The smell of it welled up in his nostrils and he gagged again. Shaking, a sheen of sweat slicked Arkin’s pale skin as his body heaved over and over again. Between forceful throbs of sick pain, he whined pathetically, pleadingly in the back of his throat. Exhausted sobs shook him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d thrown up so forcefully or for so long… Even after the sudden clenches in the back of his throat had ceased to bring up bile, the Collector kept his fingers right where they were… Arkin dry heaved around his hand. Subtly, those latex clad fingers rubbed against the thief’s spasming throat before withdrawing.

Mingled snot and bile ran out of Arkin’s nose while thick saliva dripped out of his mouth and onto his upper chest. His head lolled forward limply. The fresh stitches on his upper back and belly burned and distantly he wondered if the force of his vomiting had torn any of them out. Soft, shuddering sobs mingled with faint, tired whimpers. Ugh. He fucking hated throwing up…The powerlessness of it…Helpless while your own body betrayed you, hurt you…And afterwards, the utter exhaustion as though you’d run a fucking marathon. What little energy he’d had left was rapidly, rapidly being depleted. Clean gloved fingers slipped under Arkin’s chin and pressed upwards. Unresisting, he allowed his head to be tipped up. The Collector studied him with intense, rapt focus. Panting slowly and deeply, the thief stared back at him miserably. After a moment, the fingers slid back along his jaw. Every muscle in his body tensed but there was only a token resistance as his jaws were forced open once more.

Already raw and burning from throwing up and dry heaving over and over again, Arkin’s throat felt as though it were being shredded as the tube rammed down it once more. Gagging and choking, he tried to swallow, to _make_ himself take it. If he kept choking, the Collector might try to make him throw up again. Clenching his eyes shut, he panted wetly through his nose. The pain didn’t retreat…but slowly his throat relaxed around the thick tube pushing it open. Partway down his throat, the tube paused. Struggling to keep his gag reflex suppressed, Arkin cracked his burning eyes open. The Collector was staring down at him with those smooth, pink lips parted and his head tilted just so to the side. A deep flush colored Arkin’s cheeks. Whatever that expression was, he wasn’t sure he liked it… The pressure on his jaw eased as the Collector’s free hand drifted down to press against the front of his throat. As the tube began to worm deeper into him, those fingers spread across Arkin’s skin and pressed down.

Sickly, the thief realized the Collector was feeling the tube sliding down his throat. …But maybe that was part of the procedure? He doubted it.

The nuzzling pressure that ran down into him stopped where he thought his stomach might be. Like the thing in his ass, once it was settled inside him, it didn’t hurt so much as it was uncomfortable. Gingerly, Arkin tried to lower his head and immediately the Collector grabbed his chin and forced his head back up. When the fingers left his flesh again, Arkin remained perfectly still. The tube moved slightly and something the width of a finger pressed perpendicular across his lips around the tube. Immediately after smooth, rigid leather wrapped around Arkin’s neck. It cupped the bottom of his chin and gripped the back of his neck so that he couldn’t lower his head even if he wanted to. Like his legs. Like how he couldn’t close or extend his legs even if he wanted to…like how he couldn’t even bend his arms…

Something tickled the edge of one nostril. Unable to scratch the itch, Arkin scrunched and wiggled his nose. Insistently, the thing tickling him shoved roughly into his half-clogged nose. Reflexively, the thief’s eye on the side of the latest intrusion squinted shut in discomfort. Firm pressure slithered back into Arkin’s sinuses. He made a soft sound of displeasure as the tube curved downward, scraping over the raw, aching back of his throat. Confusion ruled his mind. The purpose of the tube in his mouth seemed obvious…but if _that_ was a feeding tube then what the hell was this? The irresistible urge to cough struck him like a bolt of lightning. Arkin’s throat spasmed around the feeding tube and his chest heaved. Panicking, he tried to force himself to breath and be calm but breathing seemed nigh impossible. Latex clad fingers pressed a sticky strip of medical tape just under Arkin’s nose; the tape held the tube in place.

No reprieve was given, no pause taken. As soon as the first tube was adhered to the thief’s face, a thicker, second tube thrust into his other nostril. Arkin tried to jerk his head back. His eyes watered as something about the size of a pinky finger forced its way into his nose. Pain crackled and spread across his face. For one, horrifying moment, he wondered if the Collector was going to smother him. It made no sense, given the catheter and feeding tube…but fear is seldom logical. Breathing was still a momentous labor that left him feeling light headed. As with the first tube, the second larger tube was taped into place and when the Collector released the tube…Arkin found himself panting freely through his nose. The larger tube held open his sinuses, at least on one side, so he could breathe despite how much he’d been weeping. His shoulders slumped in relief. Slowly, he tried to catch his breath.

A mild flicker of embarrassment nudged at him. Arkin didn’t want to know how silly, how pathetic he looked. Trussed up like an animal heading to slaughter with every natural orifice save his ears filled by something, covered in tears and blood and vomit…Whatever was going to happen, it had to be almost over. It had to be…

The Collector’s masked face loomed into view above him. His jet black eyes shone in the low light. Scowling hatefully, he pressed a finger to his own lips. Perplexed, Arkin blinked at him, already unable to speak… The masked man lowered his finger from his own lips to press against Arkin’s as he softly shushed him. At the same time, the hard, cold tip of a boot tapped against the thief’s ass. …Oh. Oh fuck… The gesture had made no sense until that tap. When had he recently run his mouth in a way that the Collector might not have liked? Oh, right, that would be when he panicked and called him just about every homophobic slur in the book. A soft whimper of dread hissed out of Arkin’s mouth around the feeding tube. The Collector didn’t smile, but his eyes showed grim delight nonetheless. You couldn’t very well teach someone a lesson if they didn’t understand _why_ , could you?

Arkin shuddered hard when the Collector’s hand left his mouth. He didn’t have long to wait to see what the big man had planned for him. The low light gleamed cruelly along the curve of the needle in the Collector’s hand. Already threaded, Arkin recognized it from the morgue. Only now, of course, he didn’t have anything that _needed_ to be stitched shut. The thief tried to speak around the feeding tube, to beg, to apologize, to curse, to threaten, to say _anything_ but the only sound that emerged was a hoarse, sobbing howl of pleading denial. Unmoved, the Collector roughly pinched Arkin’s lips together and shushed him once again… Another plaintive wail vibrated out of his nose as the needle bit through the soft, tender flesh of his lips and the rough cord drug through his skin. A sharp tug seated the knot at the end of the string against his lower lip and the needle looped back through. Harsh sobs racked Arkin and tears flowed freely down his cheeks as the Collector sewed his mouth shut around the plastic tube with methodical cruelty. Each hard yank at the end of a stitch sent a little rivulet of blood down Arkin’s chin. The cloying, metallic tang of copper filled his mouth.

With the tube in his sewn shut mouth and his nose clogged from crying, Arkin struggled to breath. The ceiling and his own bound wrists were his entire world as the Collector drew back. The faint warmth of shared body heat left him and he shivered in cold and pain, covered in goosebumps. Underneath his knees, the platform on which he knelt, the extension of the trunk, jerked. Slowly but surely, the platform was moving… Off to the side, the ominous black trunk became more and more visible. It loomed over him, an open mouth ready to gobble him up and swallow him whole. Deep in the reserves of his soul, Arkin found enough energy to scream. His lips burned around the new stitches. He wrenched his body from side to side. For his effort, the only thing he gained was more pain. Pain in his many stitches. Pain in his throat. Pain in his bent and bound legs. Pain in his impaled cock and in his spread open, filled ass.

The Collector let him struggle. It wasn’t as though he could get loose, after all.

Black leather surrounded Arkin on three sides as the platform clicked into place in the bottom of the trunk. Sobbing and screaming forcefully, in earnest, Arkin tried to turn his head to plead with his eyes as he couldn’t with his mouth, but the hard brace around his neck wouldn’t let him. It held him still, it held him just as the Collector wanted him. The warmth returned briefly, close to his side, but there was no salvation in it. As though he didn’t hear Arkin nor see his struggles, the Collector reached into the trunk and clipped chains from the three walls to the belt around Arkin’s waist. The thief couldn’t see the action, of course, he could only feel the tugging on his waist belt and the change as it became harder and harder to move. Click click. A tug on the front of his posture collar, not that he had those words for it, then a tug on the back. Click click. Two tugs against either elbow. Click. An unseen link connected the spreader bar between his elbows to a second bar extending from the front wall of the trunk. Almost immobile now…

A sharp bee sting jabbed into Arkin’s arm and he froze. Carefully, the Collector taped down the needle and the IV tube that ran from it. Arkin watched as the thin tube was pushed through a hole in the top of the trunk. The excess feeding tube went up through the “roof” next, through a different, larger hole. If he hadn’t seen the Collector push them open, he wouldn’t have known the holes were there. Some sort of rubber seal surrounded the holes and prevented even the slightest bit of light from entering. A faint tug against the tube in his nostril hinted that like the IV and feeding tube, the extra line had been fed out through some hidden hole. Humiliation sat like a stone in his belly as the catheter in his cock and the thick, strange plug in his ass shifted and pulled one after another. More tubes running out of the box, he assumed, more tubes connecting to him like wires to a machine. Little life lines…little things to keep him alive for as long as the Collector _wanted_ him alive and kept.

Perfectly still, perfectly silent save for his ceaseless, shuddering sobs, Arkin craned his head as far to the side as he could. As expected, the Collector was watching him. With bloodshot, tear filled eyes, the thief tried to convey how much he didn’t want this. There was no pause as the masked man stood and stepped back out of sight. A soft, insidious creak…and the light began to fade. The dark maw was closing around him. From outside, a hard metallic click, and then total darkness. The utter and complete absence of light. Something tugged at the last free side of his waist belt and when Arkin pulled in the opposite direction…he found that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move at all. Every part of him, from head to torso to limbs, was bound in some imaginative and absolute way. There was no lock to pick, no traps to dodge, no hope of escape nor rescue. His existence now rested solely upon the whims and graces of a serial killer who was furious with him. Like a bug on a pin, Arkin was unable to do a damned thing to save himself. The trunk had him, the Collector had him. Just another trinket in a box. …Just another piece in the collection.

 In the deathly silence, in the belly of the beast, Arkin began to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank ya'll for the support so far! I hope this chapter pleases. 
> 
> So, I decided that Arkin experienced sexual trauma in his past and that will crop up later in the story. I will not be writing an intense flashback scene about the trauma. 
> 
> Every author adds their own flavor when they write a character who isn't theirs. To me, Arkin has had a shit life in which a lot of shitty things have happened. He's never been special or treasured. Mentally and emotionally, he's more fragile than he'd like or than he lets on. This makes him more vulnerable, especially to the sort of angle the Collector is working. Don't worry, Arkin isn't going from feral to lap dog in three chapters or something. He's still a stray. There will still be obstinance and aggression from our boy.
> 
> For reference, the funnel cuffs on his wrist are suspension style cuffs. I'm vaguely kind of sorry for bastardizing medical procedures. A special thanks to Nacty for pointing out a distracting medical issue. The larger tube in Arkin's nose is just holding his sinuses open, the smaller tube is supplying oxygen to him. I would have wrote in something about the oxygen being turned on, but I didn't want to go into too many technical details.


	3. Solitary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arkin is left alone in the punishment trunk where time doesn't exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, we've got some PTSD and panic attacks related to past sexual trauma. Nothing graphic, really. Oh, and another mention of the word queer used as an insult. I would probably expect these things to just keep showing up.

~***~

A soft, low keening cry, hoarse and almost impossibly quiet.

In the blind silence, there was no time. Without light or sound, the only thing left to him was sensation. Again, he cried out in hopeless desperation as his bound legs, crumpled beneath him, spasmed and clenched. The muscle cramps came and went. Unable to move, there was nothing he could do to lessen the spasms or stop them. There was no choice but to wait for them to pass. Eventually, the cramps would fade….eventually. When his body was not jolted rigid by pain, Arkin hung limp against his bonds. At first, sometime between an hour ago and a year, he had fought to get free. Knowing it was futile, knowing it was pointless, he’d still thrown himself violently against the straps and chains and bars that kept him locked motionless in the trunk.

He knew it was pointless…but he also knew he needed to get out and the need to escape was stronger than sense, stronger than reason…

The force of his desperation had rubbed bare, raw patches across his skin under the straps. Beneath the carefully applied patches of gauze, his stitches had ripped open. The thief hadn’t noticed the feeling of blood running warm over his chilled skin until he’d exhausted himself. Then, panting and aching and no freer for his struggles, Arkin realized he had no idea when he might get sewn back up. The Collector was obviously intending to keep him in the trunk for a long, long time… Although none of his wounds were fatal, blood loss was and he had no idea how much blood he’d lost since meeting the masked man. Depending on how long the Collector left him abandoned in the box, septicemia was a concern as well. Grime, blood, sweat, vomit, and possibly worse covered nearly every inch of him. Blood loss or blood poisoning, some choice… Not that he had a choice.

Shaking in pain and exhaustion, Arkin had passed out. Or been put out. The latter seemed more likely because when he woke up, the stitches were back. He could feel them stretching and tugging at his skin under the soft patches of gauze. But the new sores he’d abraded onto himself weren’t wrapped and he could still smell the vomit dried on his chest. It was as though nothing had happened…nothing at all. But he had ripped his stitches open! …Hadn’t he? _Hadn’t he?_ If the Collector wanted to do something to him, he could just do it. After all, there was no way of knowing what was in that IV, no way at all. The Collector could just…put him under and then take him out to play with whenever he wanted. That thought burned in the back of his mind. When he awoke, he tried to find something different…but there was never anything. Nothing at all…

Was it wishful thinking? Was he actually _hoping_ the Collector was treating him like some little plastic doll on a shelf? If the Collector was taking him out though…that meant he wasn’t forgotten, didn’t it? _That_ was ok to hope for, right? _Right_? _If_ he’d ripped open his stitches and _if_ the Collector had sewn him back together, then the Collector couldn’t be _that_ mad, right? Right?

In the dark, no one could answer the question.

Tiny fists clenched and shook in Arkin’s belly, carefully tying his guts into tight, hot knots. He thought there was something in the IV all the time, but he couldn’t be sure. And he couldn’t be sure that anything was coming through the feeding tube at all. _If_ something was being fed to him, it wasn’t enough to stave off the hunger pangs which gnawed at him day and night, another faithful, constant companion. Near starvation left him feeling weak, dizzy, and cold…so cold. Goosebumps covered his filthy skin. The bloodless tips of his fingers and toes were like tiny chips of ice. At first, the room hadn’t seemed so cold…It had seemed warmer than the morgue…But now it was almost as cold as a refrigerator. _Was_ it, though? Was it really that cold or was he just sleep deprived and food deprived? Being ill fed and ill rested could make you feel like hell. Was this that or was it the other? Latter or former?

Latter or former?

Outside the trunk, his little world, something moved. Not boots, no…he hadn’t heard the Collector’s footsteps since he’d been abandoned a few minutes or a few decades ago. Despite the pain in his legs, Arkin froze and held perfectly still. Something not a dog sniffed and growled dog-like right beside him…right there. Only the thin wood and leather of the trunk kept _that_ away from _him_. Rattling chains, skin sliding against concrete, laughing, sobbing, sniffing, growling… They never spoke, this pack of monsters, these unseen creatures…but they were smart enough to know he was in there. Fingernails scrapped over the outside of the trunk, searching for a way in. Would they find it? Today? Tomorrow? If the Collector wasn’t here, then what would happen? If those things, whatever they were, those horrible sounding things, got in to him…what would he do? Even without the trunk, he was still bound from head to toe, wrist to ankle.

Were they hungry, like him?

Teeth gnashing into cold, pale flesh. Blood running across scratching fingers. Bodies thrashing in the fevered feeding frenzy of something neither animal nor man.

They had come before, hadn’t they? And then left…they would leave again. If the box could keep him in, it could keep them out. But they were on the sides with the _latches._ What if they just lifted those latches? What then, hm? Then he would come spilling out of the trunk like maggots from a corpse, like grubs from a rotten log, pale and vulnerable. Then they would eat him. The feverish, panicked thoughts chased one another. When it wasn’t at a drowsy standstill, Arkin’s mind raced. Chasing its own tail.

No…no, the Collector would have locked the trunk. Meticulous. He would have locked the trunk. But what if he didn’t _care_ if they ate Arkin, hm? What if the big man was so furious at him for what he’d said that he had washed his hands of him? What if he really was going to die in this box? _Was_ the Collector feeding him? _Was_ he changing out the IV bag? Did he still bother to look in on Arkin? Or…or…had he left the trunk some where he wouldn’t have to look at it and put it out of his mind. As much as the thief absolutely did not want to see the Collector, he didn’t want to die alone in a tiny box more. He didn’t want to be eaten alive by things that screamed and snarled in the night.

Stupid, stupid…He should have played the game better. Go along to get along. If he’d kept his mouth shut, if he hadn’t panicked… If, if, if, what good were ifs? With nothing to do, nothing to look at, nothing to distract him Arkin’s mind coiled back in on itself. At first, he thought of the house, the little girl, the blood and death and suffering the Collector brought. Anger, righteous fury, oh that was good, that was good… But time passed and it was _so cold_ and he was _so hungry_. …And so thirsty. It started with the water bottle. Over and over again, his mind went back to the water bottle in the Collector’s hand like a tongue pushing at a loose tooth. Arkin had asked for more water and the masked man was going to give it to him. When he’d “accidentally” knocked the bottle out of the Collector’s hand, the knee-jerk reaction hadn’t been to strike him, hadn’t been to punish him…if it had been, Arkin likely wouldn’t have gotten the chance to attack him while he wasn’t looking… No, he’d only gotten a chance to attack the big man because he was being _kind._

Oh, there was an argument that raged for days. Kind? Kind?! Was any of this kind? Was kidnapping him and torturing him kind?! Was murdering and butchering people kind?! Logic would scream for hours…but when it was tuckered out…the water bottle came creeping back in. Kind? What was kind, after all? How often had Arkin had to accept something awful as kindness because _it could have been worse_?

There were those little red pills in the palm of the Collector’s hand. Sticky sweet and promising minor relief from pain. Wasn’t…wasn’t _that_ kind? There was no reason _why_ the Collector _needed_ to give him anything at all for pain, no reason in the world. Arkin hadn’t been in danger of going into shock or something. There was no reason, no reason…unless it was a reward, an _earned_ kindness, and oh, wasn’t an _earned_ kindness so much more trustworthy than kindness that was just being _given_ away? If something seems too good to be true, you know… You know… It started with the water bottle and went to the generic Tylenol. Then the way the Collector had touched him started to creep back in. The feeling of that strong arm around his waist, steadying him so he wouldn’t fall off the table. That hand petting him, tapping him to warn him that something was going to hurt…Then those soft sounds from the morgue, those soft shushing sounds joined the argument.

It always ended with the shushing sounds. Not the ones from the morgue, when he was being good, but the ones from outside this very trunk, the ones the Collector made _after_ he’d attacked him. And then the argument would start again with the water bottle. His thirst always brought that up first…

After a while, a newcomer slipped in late to the party. Just before unconsciousness had swallowed him up on the floor of the morgue, he’d been staring into the Collector’s eyes while the masked man choked him. He’d looked sad, hadn’t he? Hm? How about that? He looked sad. Could monsters feel sad? Ah ha, such a flurry of offended disagreement. Arkin snarled to himself around his feeding tube. Logic brought the same arguments to bat each and every time. Kidnapping, torture, murder, serial killer, evil fucking prick… But the other voice was patient. And persistent. When Arkin thought it too had no new evidence to present to the court, it struck him with a curve ball. It wasn’t just the way the Collector had looked at him in the morgue.

It was the way the Collector had looked at him after he assumed he was going to rape him, after he’d called him a queer and worse…

Logic struggled on cross examination. Didn’t he know what it was like to have people assume the worst about you? To have people assume that if you did one bad thing, you must be up for doing all of them? And the last part…oh the last part… Yes, he’d been called that and worse before too. It hurt, it hurt a lot. And it could be dangerous too. Depending on where you were, being labeled like that could be very, very bad for your health… Had the Collector ever been through something like that? How would he, Arkin, know what had happened to the big man?

Silence.

Perfect silence and total darkness.

Almost complete sensory deprivation.

Remembering being called the things he’d called the Collector opened the door to a whole host of party crashers. In the blindness, hands pressed heavy and insistent against his skin, demanding, taking… His skin burned under chapped lips, vicious teeth, rough flesh, and coarse hair. The leather bindings turned into hands and in the darkness it was impossible to tell how he was oriented. Pinned down on his back with his legs held far enough apart to hurt, to make his hips pop, he cursed and struggled but it didn’t matter…it never did. Knees aching, they dared him to bite, promised what would happen if he did… The voices came flooding back to fill up the space around him. The insults snarled and spat and groaned at him…the guttural pig noises, self-indulgent and self-satisfied…and the laughter, of course…the laughter he hated with every fucking fiber of his fucking being. Mocking, condescending, humiliating… In the darkness, his cheeks burned and his chest screamed for air, for air because there wasn’t enough air in the box, there wasn’t it was too tight, too small, there wasn’t enough _air_ , god dammit!

Screaming, sobbing, panting, struggling…eventually, thankfully, he would pass out. Eventually…eventually…

Tiny mouths, biting into his belly. The roaches liked to join him in the box. The meat hooks came along as the roaches plus one. Why not, why not… Bring all your friends, it’s a real party in here. Friends. Ha. Friends were people who weren’t as bad as they could be, they were people who would expect things from you, things you didn’t want to give…And when you didn’t do what they wanted, oh, the betrayal. Roaches and hands, Arkin couldn’t say which one he’d rather have on him. No, scratch that. Fuck that. At least the roaches were just trying to escape. They weren’t fucking evil. They were just stupid bugs.

How long had he been in solitary, now? A day? A week? A month? Such a love hate relationship, him and solitary. On the one hand, you were alone and no one could get to you, no one could _touch_ you or _expect_ things of you. On the other…on the other…It was always so tight, so cramped, so tiny in solitary and you never knew when they’d let you out because they didn’t play fair, they didn’t play by the rules and the more you screamed the more inclined they were to let you stay in that tiny dark cell all alone with no one but your memories. And when you got out, haggard and woozy and sick, why your friends would be waiting for you, of course.

Whimpers, soft and soul sick, leaked out of the trunk.

The more the ghosts of touches pinched and groped and struck him, the more his mind kept going back to that water bottle, to that damn water bottle…

So cold, his flesh remembered the heat that almost seemed to radiate off the Collector. If he hadn’t attacked him, would the Collector have left him in the red trunk for _that_ long? It didn’t seem like the red trunk was meant to hold people long term. Maybe that was just the transportation trunk, the pet shuttle. Maybe the Collector was going to put him somewhere else…somewhere he could have stretched out or at least lain down. Would he be getting something to eat right now? Oh, Arkin wasn’t picky about what he ate. Just about anything would be better than nothing. The phantom aroma of coffee and cooking meat briefly overwhelmed the stench of himself. Go along to get along, go along to get along, why had he thought _that_ was the best time to flee?

Being forgotten. He didn’t want to be put somewhere and forgotten until he died of hunger, until he was too weak to do anything by lie on his side and pant pitifully. The trunk was waiting for him and he couldn’t go in the trunk. Please, not in there, I’ll be **good** , just please not in there… Arkin keened softly and tried to shift to rub his cheek against his own arm but even that minor self-comfort was denied to him. Trussed up as he was, he couldn’t hold himself, couldn’t bite down on the inside of his wrist, couldn’t stroke his own hair, couldn’t bring his knees up to his chest and make himself as small as possible… Maybe in trying to avoid what he was afraid of, he’d put himself square on the path to that very thing. The Collector was going to forget him. _Had_ forgotten him already. The trunk wasn’t going to open, it never was.

At first, Arkin promised himself that he’d be smarter _when_ the Collector came to let him out. He’d go along to get along, he’d wait for a chance to escape. Get strong so you can _run._

  _I’ll be good for him, long enough till the fucker trusts me and then I’m gone._

As his mind circled himself and shades of the past attacked him, as unknowable time slipped through his numb fingers, the thought slowly lost parts of itself. The original concept was long and hard to hold onto in the incredibly noisy silence. With each screaming terror, with each sudden certainty that he couldn’t breathe, that he was going to die in this box, his mind made the mantra easier to hold. The water bottle and pills, the shushing sounds and gentle touches smoothed and polished the sentence into something else, something similar but different. Self-reproach and the growing certainty that he wouldn’t have been in such a bad position if he’d just kept his cool hardened and solidified sthe new-similar thought.

Weak and aching both inside and out, the thought slipped loosely through Arkin’s head, winding around memories and twisting through terrors…

_I’ll be good…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to not write this chapter in an exactly linear way. When is all of this happening? Is Arkin currently having muscle cramps or is that before or is that later? Who knows? Arkin sure doesn't know. So if you're a little confused, that's intentional.
> 
> Sensory deprivation and solitary confinement can have very detrimental effects on the mind, especially if the person has prior mental trauma. That's a good chunk of why Arkin isn't handling this so well. I'm pretty sure that boy has claustrophobia on top of everything.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is a little odd and short, a little...lacking in meat. I didn't want to tack what's happening in the trunk onto a different chapter.


	4. Out and In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change abruptly and unexpectedly. Arkin is a sad and tired puppy. 
> 
> This is a slowburn fic, yes. ...But there's smut in this chapter. I tried to write this chapter without smut but the smut wasn't going away. So here we are. Sorry it's been so long.

 

~***~

 

Earthquake.

Invisible ground and pitch black sky shook around him as the dawn came. The vertical horizon split and spilled _blinding_ light into the world. Jagged spikes of pain clawed into his skull through the thin skin of his eyelids. There was no escape from the light. It saw all, found all. It sank under his bandages, through his flesh, down to his bones and the miserable spirit trapped within. Tight hands gripped him as he shied to the side in an attempt to escape the dawn. No escape. No way out. For a painfully long moment, he existed not as a man but as a frightened beast of meat and suffering. No reason, no logic, only fear and instinct. The instinct to fear the dawn and what it would bring.

Everyone thought that monsters came in the dark but no, no now they came in the light.

Scratching, scrabbling, snarling. He had heard them. He had heard them all as they pawed against the shell of his world and tried to get inside, to get to _him_. And now they had. Steel wool dragged up and down his raw throat as he keened in terrified misery. To die now after having survived through so much was unfair, more than unfair… Shivering and shaking, he waited for the final pain, for the ripping and tearing of teeth and nails sinking into restrained flesh…

Latex smooth, warm fingers stroked over Arkin’s cheek and a familiar voice made low, shushing sounds of comfort close to his head.

Despite the sharp jabs of pain the light brought, the thief forced himself to open his eyes and _see_. The Collector crouched right beside him, close enough to kiss. His bulk crowded into the open trunk like a wall, like a shield.  Warm, flickering light reflected in the bottomless depths of his beetle black eyes. While he wasn’t _exactly_ smiling, there was the _hint_ of a smile on his face. He looked…tentatively pleased. Hopeful. Arkin’s watering, sore eyes widened in surprise. In a single moment, three of his most potent fears had been allayed. The Collector had not blinded him. The sniffing creatures hadn’t gotten to him. And…most importantly of all, perhaps, the Collector hadn’t forgotten him and left him to die. Before he could quiet himself, a soft sob wrenched free of his chest.

The corners of the big man’s smooth, pink lips curled up ever so slightly. His hand lingered on the thief’s cheek. The latex covered pad of his thumb rubbed slow, soothing circles over Arkin’s cheekbone, just below the tender flesh that framed his eye. Softly, so softly, he hushed his captive. As the big man withdrew from Arkin’s limited sight, he held up a single finger, the universal sign for “just a moment”, for “give me a minute.” Unable to do anything _but_ wait, Arkin chuffed a soft sound of nearly delirious amusement through his nose. His cheek burned with cold fire as his nerves sang a song of loss. The brief feeling of a gentle touch had triggered the desire, no, the _need_ for more. People weren’t meant to live in such isolation.

Faint tugging sensations. First his mouth, then his cock, then his ass. Arkin cringed and hissed around his feeding tube as he felt the long IV needle slowly pulling free of his vein where it had rested for so long. Once again, the Collector crowded into the trunk, but this time he didn’t touch Arkin’s face. He barely spared the thief a glance.  All business, the masked man unclipped the various tethers which kept his captive perfectly immobile and locked to the walls of the trunk. The soft clicks of his restrains being unclipped was almost as sweet a sound as the Collector’s comforting noises. Tears stung in Arkin’s eyes and rolled unchecked down his cheeks. Wetly, he snuffled around the tubes in his sinuses and tried to stop crying… All movement paused. A single finger swept over his cheek as it wiped through the tracks of his tears. Comforting, consoling, the Collector shushed him. Deep within Arkin’s chest, something broke.

The thief keened around his feeding tube. His entire body shivered and shook with the force of his wrenching sobs. Emotions he had no name for filled his chest until it felt as though his sternum might crack. Beside him, the Collector paused and watched in silence. A black wrapped hand hovered at the edge of Arkin’s vision, close enough to his cheek that he could feel the warmth, the promise of human contact, but not actually touching him. Despite the pain moving brought, despite the difficulty of shifting, the smaller man jerked his head to the side and pressed his cheek against the Collector’s hand. A soft, hushed sigh of air brushed against his skin. Lips parted and eyes wide with rapt attention, the big man pressed back against Arkin and stroked his cheek firmly.

Unseen, the big man’s second hand rubbed slowly along the thief’s spine, carefully avoiding the patches of gauze.

Again, Arkin keened softly as the Collector _comforted_ him. Raggedly, in the back of his overloaded and confused mind, Arkin realized, with a flush of shame and anger, why he was responding so… _vividly_ to the masked man’s attempts to sooth him. When the _fuck_ was the last time someone had comforted him? When was the last time he was hurt, scared, upset, or _anything_ _bad_ feeling and someone demonstratively gave a damn? Miserably, the thief considered his frayed relationships with the people outside this hell and a sharp epiphany hit him like a sudden punch to the gut. He had been alone even before the trunk.

Patiently, the Collector shushed and stroked him until the smaller man’s sobs tapered off into soft sniffles and hiccups. Just outside of Arkin’s blurry line of sight, his wide smile threatened to actually show teeth, to turn into a feral, triumphant grin. Firmly, he patted his captive’s back as he stood and slipped away.

Craning his head to the side, Arkin struggled to keep the big man in his sights- and then abruptly fucking stopped that. Lesson learned, no craning to see, no looking around to watch what the Collector was doing. Eyes forward, or in this case, eyes up. There was absolutely no desire to do anything that might make the masked man reconsider taking him out. Somewhere off to the side, he heard a low hum of approval. A warm flush swept across Arkin’s chest and cheeks. The platform upon which he was restrained lurched to the side then slid smoothly out of the trunk. Warm, moist air caressed Arkin’s skin. Above, the white popcorn ceiling was marked by discoloring patches of mildew. The towering bulk of the Collector filled his vision as the big man stepped in front of him. He held up a delicate pair of tiny, silver scissors and wiggled them slightly.

A deep sense of concern started to well up in Arkin’s chest until the Collector tapped a finger against the thief’s lips. The stitches! His eyes brightened as he forced himself to hold perfectly still. Although he couldn’t see the Collector’s actions, he could feel the faint tug followed by a lessening of tension on his mouth, and the occasionally cool kiss of metal against his skin.  A finger tapped his lips again and he braced…only to startle as the big man seized one of the cut stitches with a pair of tweezers and pulled it out of his flesh. The stitches were reluctant to come out. Sharp, stinging tugs burned across Arkin’s lips. Distantly, the thief could taste the hot copper of his own blood seeping into his mouth. The pain was worth it when the Collector held up the tweezers to show Arkin the bloody, cut stitch they held. Of course, that likely meant the feeding tube was going to come out next. Without needing to be asked, Arkin spread his mouth wider.

Cool air hit his suddenly naked, terribly exposed throat as the Collector removed the collar that had held his head still. Right, the collar had gone on _after_ the tube had been inserted because-

Arkin’s spine curved sharply forward as the feeding tube yanked free of his throat. Weakly, he vomited thin, watery bile onto his already filthy chest. Right. Because if he couldn’t lower his head to throw up, he probably would have choked. Considerate. Another tremor of nausea rippled along his spine as the Collector relieved him of his breathing tube, but this time, the heaving of his belly produced nothing but pain. With the same efficient speed, Arkin was relieved of the cone holding his sinuses open. Ah, that burned like hell… A single finger lightly booped the tip of his nose as he wrinkled it.

In good spirits, the Collector crouched down in front of Arkin. Shushing and soothing the thief with wordless sounds of comfort, the masked man cupped Arkin’s impaled cock gingerly in his hand. Attentively, Arkin peered down at his own groin and waited with as much eagerness as he could muster for the damn catheter to be taken out. But first, the surgical tape had to come off…

The thief made a soft, pitiful sound in the back of his throat as the big man peeled the tape slowly off; it was reluctant to let loose. Beneath the tape, the tip of Arkin’s cock was angry red and irritated. Those silky, latex covered fingers squeezed around his shaft and an unwelcome flutter rose in his lower belly. Holding him still with one hand, the Collector carefully withdrew the long tube from within his cock. Through grit teeth, Arkin hissed in discomfort as it pulled free of his swollen, tender glans.

As he rose, the Collector patted the quivering inside of Arkin’s thigh. On his feet, he circled around and out of Arkin’s field of vision. A latex covered hand fondly ruffled the hair on the top of the thief’s head as he held still and did not try to look back… Two fingers tapped the smooth curve of Arkin’s ass, startling him. Immediately, reflexively, the thief tensed. He could feel the heat of the Collector behind him…and he knew what was about to happen. Breathing deeply, he focused on the facts of the situation. The Collector was taking him out of the trunk. That meant taking things out of _him_. No different from going to the doctor, really…no different at all.

Arkin’s pulse still quickened when the big man’s fingers spread his cheeks wide to reveal his stretched, plugged opening. The thick bulb inside him pulled backwards and Arkin’s body strained around the girth. A fine sheen of sweat slicked his gritty, grimy skin. Behind him, the Collector watched enraptured with parted lips as the sore, cherry red rim of Arkin’s ass stretched open wider and wider…

Arkin cried out in brief pain as the thickest part of the plug forced him open and slipped out. Shivering, Arkin hung his head and panted shallowly. After being filled for so long, his ass felt strangely…empty. While he caught his breath, the masked man continued to hold his cheeks apart. In the low light, Arkin’s glistening ring quivered and flinched and struggled to close fully. A sudden, heavy huff of hot, vaguely minty breath hit Arkin’s back. With almost embarrassed speed, the Collector let go of the smaller man’s rump and stood up. Arkin heard the tell-tale snap of gloves being removed.

Faint patches of color stood out on the thief’s pale cheeks. As the big man started to remove the many pieces of bondage equipment restraining him, showing a practiced ease in handling them, Arkin allowed his eyes to rove around what of the room he could see. White subway tiles covered the walls from floor to pale, mildew spotted ceiling. Tiny, hexagonal tiles of dingy gray covered the floor. Beyond that, he couldn’t see any more without moving his head and that was…strongly discouraged. The trunk to his left blocked much of the room from view. The light quality was strange. Low and warm, it flickered, waxed and waned irregularly. Squinting, Arkin thought the light looked an _awful_ lot like candle light. But that much light would have taken a lot of candles to produce and so far the Collector didn’t seem to be sort of guy that stocks up on candles. The brief image of the Collector stalking through Bed, Bath, and Beyond with an armload of candles threatened momentarily to send Arkin into hysterical gales of manic laughter. By force of will, the thief restrained himself; he strongly doubted the Collector had much of a sense of humor and he had no desire to piss the masked man off so soon.

Whatever was casting the light, he was grateful for the mild, gentle brightness which made it easier for his eyes to adjust.

The masked man stood and towered over Arkin. Their eyes met as his fingers toyed with the leather cuffs still holding the smaller man’s arms above his head. Despite the earlier speed with which he’d removed Arkin’s restrictive ‘gear’, the Collector seemed to be waiting for…something. The faint flavor of blood bloomed across Arkin’s tongue as he bit the inside of his cheek. “Please?” He tried, his voice a hoarse, barely audible rasp. Sandpaper made from broken glass and razor wire rubbed over the inside of his throat in the wake of just that one word. It was worth it. With a lingering smile, the Collector deftly opened the cuffs. Before Arkin could pull his half-numb arms down, those latex clad hands grabbed his sore wrists and gave him a firm tug that was likely intended to bring him to his feet. As the thief’s legs unbent for the first time in who knew how long, a sharp wave of rippling agony surged through his lower limbs.

Arkin choked out a screaming sob as he fell forward against the unyielding muscle of the Collector’s thighs and lower belly. The nerves in his legs were on _fire_. Electrically charged pins and needles stabbed deep into cramping, quivering muscles as his nerves woke up suddenly and angrily. Like the first tortured gasp of a half drowned swimmer after CPR, his body struggled to process the change in positions and blood flow. Distantly, Arkin was aware that the Collector had let go of his arms. With no space left in his mind that was not devoted to how much his fucking legs _hurt_ , he didn’t consider his next action before doing it. Above his head, the big man gave a soft huff-grunt of surprise as the thief’s arms wrapped tightly around his hips. Inky eyes wide, the Collector stared frozen down at Arkin with one hand half raised while the smaller man clung to him. Soft sobs shook the pale, filthy thief and his hot tears soaked into the Collector’s trousers.

God, it fucking _hurt_!

Most of the way up onto his knees, Arkin found it impossible to make his legs obey his attempts to uncurl them any further. The worst muscle cramp of his life had bred with that bitchy pins-and-needles-your-leg-fell-asleep-numbness and their Antichrist hellspawn was shredding his muscles and cracking his bones. Or so it felt. Standing was simply **not** an option. Flopping over like a fish would have been on the table, but Arkin had no intention of moving at all unless forced. If it hurt this much to hold still, it stood to reason it would hurt _more_ to move. Not that reason had much say in his affairs as of late… It wasn’t _reasonable_ , for example, that you could be in so much pain without a single cut, burn, broken bone, or even _bruise_ to show for it.

Miserable sobs rasped free of his raw throat as he buried his face against the dark cloth in front of him. There were no words in the face of so **much**. How many days had passed since his first fateful meeting with the masked man? Arkin couldn’t say, but he _could_ say that not a single one of those days had been painless nor had any of them involved getting a good night’s sleep or even a decent meal. After the terror and loneliness and devastating solitude of the trunk and the sudden waves of emotion that came with being taken out of the trunk and delivered from aforementioned terror, loneliness, and solitude he was tired. Tired in every way a person could be tired. Tired and still scared and still lonely and horrifically, pathetically needy- small.

Wordlessly, Arkin nuzzled and rubbed his cheek against the Collector in a mute, dumb animal plea for clemency. A soft sound, not loud enough to be a groan and too aggressive to be a moan, hissed into the air above the thief’s head. Beneath the rough fabric, pressed firmly against him, Arkin felt the Collector’s cock stiffen and throb. His attention torn in several directions at once, he didn’t have time to fully process this new development before strong hands pried his arms loose from their hold and shoved him back. The cold, gritty platform rushed up to meet his ass as his weight settled firmly back down to sit between his heels once more.

Arkin peered upward with tear-hazy eyes and wondered, dully, if this meant the masked man had changed his mind. Back in the trunk? “Hurts…” He slurred almost drunkenly in an attempt to explain, to justify. Breathing hard, his eyes shining over bright, the Collector stared down at Arkin. Between the two of them, it was hard to say which man was more surprised to find the thief rejected and back in his previous position. Although both of them might have been confused, the shadow outline of the masked man’s arousal against his pants suggested that at least _part_ of him knew exactly what it wanted.

For a moment, neither man moved. Sore and shivering with pain and overloaded emotion, Arkin looked miserably up at the Collector and waited…and the Collector in turn continued to look down at the thief. Bright, slick blood covered Arkin’s lips from the recent removal of his stitches. His eyes were blood shot and tear filled, vulnerable, their pale color standing out in sharp contrast to the red irritation. Already skinny and pale when he arrived, his flesh had taken on a sun starved cast and his ribs stood up too sharply against his skin. Nearly every inch of flesh was covered in grime, dirt, blood, or vomit and all of it was topped off by sweat. Shaking and cringing in on himself, making no effort to escape or fight… The Collector slowly exhaled a shuddering breath and swallowed hard.

With speed that suggested anger, the big man stepped around Arkin to crouch beside him. Reflexively and expectantly, the thief flinched back. Instead of punishing him, those soft sounds of comfort were breathed against his ear. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, the Collector shoved Arkin back to sit fully on his sore ass as he pulled his shaking legs out from under him. “Ah! Fuck! You f-“ The thief bit his lower lip hard enough to break skin rather than continue _that_ rash sentence. Miserably, he offered no resistance, not that resistance had helped him so far, as the Collector pushed and nudged him into position. Once his legs were bent up enough for an arm to slide behind his knees, Arkin was swept up with a dizzying suddenness. Clenching his eyes shut against the rush of vertigo, he leaned heavily against the hard, muscular chest pressed against one side of him and made a stern effort to _not_ throw up again.

The world rocked and swayed. Movement.

As they moved, the feeling of sluggish humidity and warmth increased. With his legs forced to stretch out and allow blood to move freely, the pain eased into something barely bearable. If he made it out of this- _when_ he made it out of this alive, Arkin imagined his pain tolerance would likely have increased considerably. Held and carried like a bride, the floor seemed to be perilously far beneath him. The only thing holding him aloft, more so even than the arms wrapped around him, was the Collector’s goodwill. Through the ear which pressed against the Collector he could hear the hard, somewhat fast thud-thud-thud of the big man’s heart. Arkin glanced up. His own bloody, tear streaked face was reflected in those beetle black eyes. A tiny Arkin, trapped in the Collector’s gaze. Shivering uncomfortably, he looked away, looked anywhere else.

As they stepped over a round drain set in the floor and passed a dingy porcelain toilet, Arkin realized where he’d seen those floor tiles before. Bathroom tiles, obviously. White candles ranging from half burned pillars to tea lights lined the edges of the walls along the floor. Otherworldly, almost romantic…but white was usually the cheapest color of candle in his limited experience. No point reading too deeply into things. The whole damn room was white or white-ish. Still, it was…oddly sweet. There were flat, ugly fluorescents set into the ceiling and, presuming they were in the same place as the morgue, they had electricity. It would have been easy to flip on the overhead lights. Easy…and painfully bright on his eyes after he’d been in the dark for so long. Arkin’s chest ached. Without realizing it, the thief curled tighter against the Collector.

At the opposite end of the room from the trunk, far from the candle-less dimness, stood the source of the muggy warmth and their destination. Waist high, stainless steel, Arkin’s first thought turned toward the sinks in commercial kitchens where he’d washed dishes a few lifetimes ago. That wasn’t right though...Close, but- Dog wash. Both wider and deeper than a restaurant sink, the arrangement of taps, facet, and hand held sprayer were also wrong. The Collector stopped beside the, for lack of a better term, dog sink, and dangled Arkin over the hot water. Steam wafted off the surface of the water and tickled against his skin. Nauseous dread threatened to choke him.  Slowly, his world tilted toward the water. He reached across his body and grabbed onto the big man’s sweater. As though he hadn’t noticed, the Collector continued to lower Arkin. Too nice, too nice. This was all too nice. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense unless it _wasn’t_ nice, unless it was just another sick game, another trap. Boiling, scalding hot water and hot enough to steam but not burn water felt about the same until you were _in_ it.

Tensing, anticipating, dreading…

Arkin bit back a soft wail of agonized pain as the water touched the tense, aching muscles of his ass. The Collector did not pause, nor did he move his arm out from under the thief’s legs. As his body rapidly disappeared below the steaming surface, Arkin groaned low and rough in the back of his throat. Heat _almost_ hot enough to be uncomfortable sank into his brutalized body. Arkin’s rump came to rest against the smooth, warm bottom of the sink and the Collector held him there a moment longer, held him close. The big man leaned back and withdrew his dripping, still sleeve covered arms from the water. Bereft of support, the thief hunched forward towards his half bent up knees. Arkin’s eyelids fluttered. Ah…when was the last time he’d had a _bath_? Seemingly decades of filth covered him from head to toe. Blood and sweat and vomit and bile and dirt and grime…

As the Collector circled around to the end of the sink, behind Arkin, the thief held as still as a rabbit who has scented a hound and waited for the comfort to end and the pain to start. Firm hands slid under his arms and tugged him backwards. Neither hindering nor helping, Arkin slipped back until his spine rested flush with the wall of the sink. The water’s tendrils of soothing heat lessened the ache in his muscles, the ache in his bones. With a low, hoarse groan, Arkin slowly, carefully, stretched his legs out. Eyes closed, his expression almost enraptured by bliss, the smaller man slowly allowed his head to tip back. In the wake of so much suffering and stress, now confronted by tenderness and pleasure, it was hard to keep his guard up. When the back of his head came to rest against something firm which rose and fell, rose and fell steadily, his sleepy eyes opened almost lazily to stare up into the soulless depths of the Collector’s gaze.

Silently, his captor stood behind him, towered above him, watched him with moist, parted lips and bright, glistening eyes. Swallowing hard, Arkin forced himself to be a _good boy_. Be good, be good… Ah, that thought, that persistent mantra from the trunk returned with staggering force. _I’ll be good…_ “Thanks…” The thief whispered through swollen, cracked and bloody lips. “S’nice…” Each word dragged jagged blades up the inside of his throat…but it was worth it to watch the Collector’s face change, to see the tiny widening of his eyes, the faint curl of his lips. For a still, silent time the captor and captive stared into each other’s eyes, black into blue, blue into black. Shivering, his cheeks oddly warm, Arkin looked away first…and that seemed to be right thing to do. Warm, latex covered fingers roughly stroked through his hair before the Collector reached around him to grab the hand sprayer.

Hot lines of water jetted down into the thief’s sweaty, dirty hair and soaked his scalp. Arkin yelped in surprise and _thought_ he heard a huff of amusement behind him. Closing his eyes against the cast off water from the strong spray, Arkin sighed blissfully. The sprayer turned off and fingers, still wrapped in latex, descended upon the smaller man’s head. The thief could feel fingernails under the latex scratching into his scalp as the Collector massaged a somewhat herbal smelling soap into his hair. A soft, needy sound that was almost a moan rippled out of Arkin before he could grab it. Alone for so long, denied even the comfort of curling in on himself, of any human contact at all, the thief had no words for how _good_ it felt to finally be touched. His flesh craved it, seemed to strain towards it. Beneath the water, Arkin squirmed fitfully. Logic and pride hissed angrily, but the new voice that had woken in the trunk drowned them out. Animal need, the basic human drives, were so much louder than silly logic and pride even without the aid of the new voice which whispered in his ear. _This is what happens when you go along…_

If he hadn’t attacked the Collector, would he have gotten this better treatment sooner?

Dreamily, Arkin raised his hands and peered down at them while the big man scrubbed his hair and scalp with firm determination. A cold blade knifed into the thief’s gut. The wounds on the backs of his hands were almost healed… Here and there a stitch still tacked his flesh together…but the jagged rips that had marked his hands, marked where he’d torn the hooks out, were now fresh, glossy, dark pink scars. …How…how long would that have taken? Arkin didn’t know. It _seemed_ like that much healing would take a very, very long time…but he didn’t _know_. When the sprayer turned back on and sent a rush of water over his head, Arkin jumped, startled. Immediately, those soft shushing sounds started up behind him. A heavy, aching weight settled in the smaller man’s chest and pushed up against his throat. Carefully, like someone grooming their prized pet, the Collector rinsed and then conditioned Arkin’s hair.

Somewhere between the first rinse and the second, Arkin settled lower into the water, lulled into a vague stupor by the combination of warmth and gentle touches. Dull thrums of achy pain still pulsed through his weak, exhausted body but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable…not since meeting the Collector, surely. But _had_ he been comfortable before then? Struggling to make ends meet, leaving the heat in his apartment almost off to save on his electricity bill, eating only the cheapest slop the bargain stores had to offer, spending most of the time alone… When was the last time someone touched him with anything even close to affection? It would have been his ex or his daughter…right? They had…they had… But that was so, so long ago and the life before the house and the blood and the screams was distant and hard to recall in the drained fog of his trauma stricken mind.

A mountain of black slid gracefully and silently into his peripheral vision.

Standing beside the sink, the Collector tilted his head as he studied his latest prize. Boldly, his ink black eyes crawled over Arkin’s nude, utterly exposed body. His wet tongue slithered out of his mouth to moisten his lips. A light and not _entirely_ unpleasant heat suffused Arkin’s chest. Silently, he peered up at his captor and waited…waited because there was nothing else he could do without risking some punishment, waited because he was too _tired_ to do anything else… The wait wasn’t long. Those thick, powerful arms slipped into the water again to push and guide Arkin’s legs until they were crossed and the thief could sit upright without needing to lean back against the side of the sink. Wordlessly, the Collector turned Arkin around until he faced the wall and the taps with his back to the room. Arkin allowed all this to happen without resistance or fuss.

_Good boy…be good…_

Gently but quickly, the Collector pulled the few remaining patches of gauze from Arkin’s upper back. Having been soaked with water, the tape came off without too much stinging pain. A soft, wet cloth slick with suds ran gently across Arkin’s upper back. The softest hiss of discomfort slid free from his damaged lips, but otherwise he held still while the masked man tended him. Spots of color and heat blazed in the thief’s cheeks. Vague embarrassment and discomfort at being bathed like a child…or a pet warred with the whimpering, keening need to be touched and to know the Collector wasn’t angry with him… Because if the Collector was showing him so much attention he hadn’t forgotten him, clearly. And if he was being so gentle then he couldn’t still be mad, right? And if he was spending so much time and energy and _effort_ on Arkin maybe that meant _something_ ….Something good. Arkin groaned low in his throat as the Collector’s knuckles pressed into the muscles in his back and gently kneaded him like fresh dough. A hoarse but emphatic “ _Fuck_...” slipped out of the thief’s mouth.

A cup of water sluiced over Arkin’s back and the soapy cloth slipped around to his chest. The warm, solid presence of the masked man loomed close behind him. Still covered, those powerful arms wrapped around Arkin possessively, like some poisonous vine tangling over an abandoned house. One arm pressed against the thief’s collarbone, just below his throat, and held him back against the Collector’s chest as the washcloth rubbed over his skin. A faint shiver rippled up Arkin’s spine as the big man’s hand passed over his chest and brushed firmly over one exquisitely sensitive nipple. The stutter in the Collector’s movements as Arkin softly gasped was easy to miss…but Arkin felt it nonetheless. Slowly, the cloth drug over his skin and brushed gingerly over his other nipple. The soft, pink nub immediately hardened in response. A flush of embarrassment warred with a deeply unwanted and ill-timed flush of…something worse. Beneath the water, Arkin squirmed his hips slightly.

As though nothing had happened, the Collector continued to bathe his upper body above the waterline.

As he had with Arkin’s back, the big man washed him quickly and efficiently with the cloth to shed off the layers of filth before discarding it to the side of the sink. The arm around Arkin’s collarbone moved to join its twin as the Collector massaged life and blood back into his captive. Beneath the water, the thief’s toes curled as his fingers were carefully stretched back one by one while the masked man pressed down on his palm just _so_. First one arm and then the other, the methodical man attacked each muscle and tendon group in turn. Arkin didn’t think he’d ever had a massage in his entire life, or if he _had_ it was a very forgettable one. Eyelids heavy, the smaller man leaned willingly back against the Collector’s chest and watched as his arms were bent and lifted and pressed. Possessively, the masked man ran his hands over Arkin’s torso.

As he massaged the thief’s small pectorals, the big man’s hands repeatedly caught the tender, firm buds of his nipples between his fingers. Heart thudding, Arkin watched the Collector’s hands as they stroked over his skin…and accidentally closed around his nipples. Fuck, it was impossible not to squirm. Every firm pinch, every gentle tug, sent a bolt of incredibly unwanted, incredibly fucked up white hot lust down to his groin. Biting the inside of his cheek, the thief willed himself to stay… _calm._ But _fuck_ , that felt good. A surprised groan burst from his mouth as both nipples were tugged firmly in concert. There was no way this could be an accident…if it happened once or twice, sure, but it _kept_ happening over and over again. Before something truly humiliating could…arise, the Collector took up the washcloth again and soaped it once more.   
  
Arkin jumped as the slippery cloth rubbed down his belly, towards his groin. Immediately, the Collector’s unoccupied arm slipped back around the thief’s torso and pressed against his collarbone as though the big man expected trouble. So tense he trembled, Arkin offered no resistance…but he couldn’t look away from the water, from the Collector’s hand so close to parts of him he would rather have left alone. Pain…pain was going to come. There was no escaping it… This was too nice, too nice… Rather than touching his captive’s cock, the Collector scrubbed the insides of his thighs carefully. With firm nudges and taps, he guided the smaller man into straightening first one leg then the other so he could wash both limbs with more care. A great deal of time was devoted to scouring the nearly ground in, stubborn dirt off Arkin’s knees.

When the thief started to slightly relax, the washcloth and the Collector’s hand pressed down between his thighs. Water sloshed out of the sink as Arkin startled and instinctively shoved himself back against the sink wall and away from the contact. The arm pressed against his chest tightened warningly, but those soft shushes began again. Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to break skin, Arkin clenched his eyes shut and waited… The hand lightly cupping both his cock and balls withdrew slightly, only to wrap around his prick with a firm grasp. From root to tender, aching tip and back down, the masked man stroked his captive under the premise of bathing him. Fluttery heat filled Arkin’s lower belly even as his chest tightened. A low, nauseous groan slipped out between his clenched teeth as the Collector carefully, carefully pushed the thief’s foreskin back.

Thorough to a fault.

Despite Arkin’s shame, humiliation, and disgust he could feel fucking blood pumping into his cock, a result of the physical stimulation and **_nothing more_**. The Collector’s hand, still gripping his prick, paused. As though there was nothing unusual going on, as though he’d noticed nothing, the big man moved on and firmly cupped Arkin’s sack in his hand. Squirming slightly, the thief gnawed his lower lip as fingers which had pressed hooks and needles into his skin rolled his balls against the Collector’s palm. Thankfully, the masked man did not linger overlong…though Arkin’s relief was short lived. The slick cloth pushed back behind his sack and spread his cheeks. A finger rubbed almost tentatively against his recently violated, sore as fuck rim. A sharp hiss of pain whistled between Arkin’s teeth and the hand paused. Then the pressure returned, firmer, inquisitive.   
  
When another sound of pain snapped out of the exhausted thief’s mouth, the investigating touch lightened and the Collector murmured soothing noises against his ear. Gingerly, two fingers rubbed carefully around Arkin’s opening, but they didn’t press hard against him again. When Arkin’s whole backside was scrubbed to the Collector’s satisfaction and his hand withdrew, the thief slumped down with an audible sigh of relief. Over, that was over. No reason to bother him there again… Still holding his captive against his torso, the Collector leaned forward and pulled the drain stop. While the filthy, skuzzy, hazy water spiraled down the drain, he stroked Arkin’s collarbone with a motion that was almost fond. …And then the masked man made a low sound of disapproval in the back of his throat. Immediately, Arkin tensed and racked his brain for what he did wrong…

The answer came when the big man picked up the hand sprayer and turned it on again. A fine layer of greasy filth clung to Arkin like a soap ring in a tub. And that, apparently, would not do. The smaller man clenched his eyes shut and grumbled under his breath as the pounding jets of water were directed at him once more. Despite the desire to be _good_ , to be _good_ so he wouldn’t go back in the trunk like a discarded toy, it was impossible not to squirm and fidget as the Collector rinsed him repeatedly. Over and over again…from head to toe. Everywhere. Firm hands pushed and tugged him onto all fours, despite his reluctance to enter such a…vulnerable position. But the Collector’s will was law in this bizarre, horrifying world and so onto all fours Arkin went.

The water and one latex covered hand rubbed over his back, his shoulders, down his arms…Back up, down his back…The thief jumped as though someone had goosed him when the masked man’s hand palmed the curve of his ass. Warm water tickled teasingly over Arkin’s opening and down across his balls. Bile surged into the back of his throat as the Collector’s hand once more manipulated his genitals…but the contact was brief, business like. Every firm touch spoke of claiming, of possession…

Only when Arkin’s tender skin was scrubbed pink and free from any traces of grime, did the masked man relent. Once more, firm hands pushed and guided the thief until those strong arms could wrap around his back and under his legs to lift him. Rising swiftly up, the air almost cold against his damp skin. This trip was shorter than the previous one. Off to one side, near a bank of candles, so many that their combined flames provided a tangible, though slight, rise in temperature, a towel stretched out on the floor. Two things, both mostly white, sat upon it. A small stack of identical towels, the sort one might expect to find in a hotel, and a small metal box with a red cross emblazoned on the front. Both items further nudged Arkin’s mood towards hopeful. When the big man lowered him down to sit on the clean cloth, he did not hold onto him fearfully as he had before.

Eyes forward, watching the candles, the thief waited. He was being good. He had been good so far and he’d been taken out of that fucking god awful trunk. He had gotten _clean_. And now there was a first aid kit which he dearly hoped had something in it that would help with the myriad of dull aches and lingering cramps throughout his body. The view suddenly vanished as the big man dropped a towel over him. Almost playfully, as though Arkin wasn’t the only person feeling hopeful, the Collector briskly and efficiently dried his captive off. “Ah!” Arkin hissed as the towel scrapped over the tender new skin on his upper back. “Fuck, man.” The hoarse complaint was accompanied by an almost pouting glare. Despite the mantra of _Be good_ , there was too much piss and vinegar in the thief to keep him perfectly good for long.   
  
The Collector cocked his head to the side and peered down at the smaller man with bright, inquisitive eyes. This time, Arkin held his gaze and forced himself to speak. “Fresh healed, hurts.” He rasped, keeping his words as brief as possible for the benefit of his throat. In silence, those beetle black eyes continued to watch him, unblinkingly. The thief glanced from the hands still holding the towel around his shoulders back up to those unreadable black pools. “Don’t wanna need more stitches.”

A soft huff of definite amusement escaped the Collector, a sound which did nothing to reassure Arkin about his future fate.

Strong arms encircled him and the warm, solid bulk of the big man’s body pressed against his back. For a moment…nothing happened. Then, the arms withdrew. Damp terry cloth covered most of Arkin and he grabbed onto the edges of the towel to keep it from sliding off his shoulders, but the Collector showed no signs that he intended to take the towel away. Soft click of metal. Sidelong, the thief watched the masked man’s hands from the corner of his eye. A small unmarked bottle. Two almost flat, round red pills fell out of the bottle and onto a latex covered palm. From behind the stack of towels, the Collector produced a bottle of water…

Immediately, Arkin understood that this was a test.

His expression stern behind the mask, the Collector held his hand out towards Arkin, flat, offering his palm and the pills on it. Without pause, the thief leaned forward and lipped the acetaminophen tablets into his mouth. As their sweet coating melted on his tongue, the big man watched him consideringly…and offered the water bottle as well. Cheeks burning red, Arkin parted his sore, stinging lips and waited patiently while his captor poured water into his mouth. As before, the masked man held onto the bottle and controlled the flow. With enough water in his mouth, Arkin quickly swallowed both pills. Lowering the bottle, it seemed as though the masked man didn’t intend to give him another drink. Arkin’s raw throat begged for something cool against it.

“Can…can I have some more?”

The big man froze…and then brought the bottle back up to Arkin’s mouth. Here they stood at the cross roads again. In the morgue, this particular interaction had gone…very differently. In the bathroom, Arkin drank deeply and greedily. Although he would have happily emptied the bottle, the masked man drew it back before the thief could make himself sick guzzling water too fast into his empty stomach. The corners of the Collector’s mouth threatened a smile. Water bottle set aside, test passed, Arkin waited to see what would come next. Food, maybe? He hoped it was food… His belly rumbled loudly.

Instead, two fingers slipped down the back of the towel and tugged it off him. The little thief shivered in the towel’s absence. The Collector tapped his knee with two fingers and then the floor. Puzzled, the smaller man stared uncomprehending at him. Patiently, the masked man repeated the gesture until what he wanted clicked into place. Tentatively, watching the Collector from the corner of his eye, Arkin shifted onto his knees. Immediately, he was rewarded with a long, firm stroke down his spine.

His skin sang at the contact and a traitorous section of his heart swelled with perverse pride. The pressure on his back did not leave but increased as a hand pressed down between his shoulderblades. Unresisting still, being a good boy lest the Collector decide he didn’t deserve some sort of second chance, Arkin allowed himself to be manipulated into crouching on all fours. However, when two fingers tapped the inside of his thigh, he froze, suddenly highly aware of how fucking vulnerable this position left him… Impatiently, the two fingers tapped him again. With the faintest sound of annoyance, the Collector shoved Arkin’s legs apart. The scrubby fabric of the towel burned raw patches against the thief’s knees as they skidded against it. Shaking uncontrollably, Arkin forced himself to stammer out a barely audible apology. “S-sorry…”

A deep feeling of dread sank into the thief’s belly as two fingers tapped his rump just below the base of his spine. Without breaking contact, the fingers slid down and spread his cheeks apart as wide as they could. Cool air brushed over the tender rim of Arkin’s opening, made sore by the plugs prolonged intrusion. Dislike did not begin to cover his feelings on this situation. But the taps thus far had been an indication that something medically related was about to happen…usually something painful. Arkin jerked forward with a sudden, searing swear as something cool and hard rubbed against his opening. Instantly, the hand holding him open jerked back and latched onto his hip instead, hauling him back into place.

“Fuckin’ coulda warned me…” He hissed through grit teeth. A shiver ran up his spine as two slick fingers tapped his clenched rim twice. Bruisingly tight, the Collector held onto him. Running would do no good. Fighting was laughable in his condition. There was only one option…and it turned Arkin’s stomach. A deep, shuddering breath sucked into his lungs as he tried to remain calm, remain objective. Whatever was about to happen, there was a utilitarian purpose behind it…like when the Collector forced that fucking huge plug into him.  Grit teeth ground together. Muscles tense as a bowstring shook. Bile tickled the back of his throat. The fingers which tapped him rubbed a slow, contemplative circle around Arkin’s tight ring. Stay objective…stay calm…There was a first aid kit open _right there_. Whenever the Collector caused pain, he tended to it later on. This was…medical. Yeah, just like going to the doctor… Firm, but gentle pressure… _insistent_ pressure. The sharp yelp that burst from the thief’s mouth echoed off the walls.

Two _thick_ fingers pried his aching rim open and pushed **into** him. Chest tight, lungs frozen, belly threatening to rise up in the back of his throat and choke him. Arkin’s teeth chattered from the tension in his jaw. The ring of muscle at his opening _burned_ and ached with a horrible stinging pain that made tears of humiliation, disgust, and self-loathing flood the smaller man’s eyes. No, oh no no no… The hand on his hip rubbed gently against his skin and behind him the Collector made low, soft noises of comfort. But despite the attempts to sooth him, Arkin couldn’t force himself to relax. Fight or flight… Adrenaline dumped into his veins. His heart pounded painfully hard in his chest.

Those intrusive fingers paused just inside him and pushed in no further. The Collector waited, his beetle black eyes glued to the sight of his captive’s painfully red rim flinching and clenching against the black latex of his gloves. Slowly, he spread his fingers apart… A low, animal whine of pleading pain leaked out of Arkin’s mouth through his clenched teeth. It **hurt**. Fuck it hurt… Wider…wider… Cool air touched inside the thief’s most intimate place. Just as slowly, the fingers pushed back together. Arkin’s rim clenched tightly against them, eager to be closed again, but the fingers didn’t withdraw. His throat burning with bile, his belly greasy-sick, Arkin made a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a groan as the fingers slowly rotated and twisted inside him…

Quickly, they pulled back out of him and Arkin’s rim pulled outward briefly, sucking along the finger’s lengths. The Collector’s heavy breathing shuddered. As was fucking custom, Arkin’s relief was short lived. Slicker than before, the fingers returned and rubbed over his violated opening. Sticky-slick ooze smeared against his skin. Clenching down, trying to keep from being penetrated, was ill advised. It only hurt worse when they got inside…but Arkin couldn’t help it.

The thief gasped aloud in pain…and a flash of horrifying pleasure as his body was suddenly forced open, forced to spread around those two thick digits. Slick as they were, they were _big_ fingers and his ass was still tender from the plug. His opening burned and stung with that pain which was all too nauseatingly familiar. Every instinct continued to scream for him to lash out, to get away… Behind him, those low sounds of comfort. Half way into him, the fingers paused and held perfectly still. Twitching and clenching, the thief’s opening gradually adjusted to the unwanted intrusion. Under the panic and dread and the roiling sick feeling in his guts, a flush of heat spread across Arkin’s chest and down towards his groin.

Eyes blurred by tears, the thief slowly lowered his upper body down to rest on his elbows. He hung his head between his arms, hiding in humiliation. The Collector didn’t stop.

A low, helpless moan vibrated on the still air as the fingers holding Arkin open slowly rotated inside him. The touch paused…and then pressed forward firmly. The rim was always the worst part, what hurt the most, once that adjusted the rest was easier, at least in the smaller man’s experience. Breathing fast and shallow, he held himself taunt as a bowstring while the Collector forced his ass to swallow his fingers all the way down to the knuckles. Arkin expected him to pull out, but... The fingers inside the thief spread once more, forcing his walls apart. With his fingers still spread, the Collector slowly pulled his hand backwards, dragging it leisurely out of his captive. Like Arkin, the big man was almost panting. Quick, short breaths huffed out through his nose as his rapt eyes watched the thief’s pink ring stretch open wider and wider, pulling outward as it clung to his hand…

Shivering, the thief could feel his ass clenching, struggling to close… His cheeks burned red. In sharp contrast to the slowness of his withdrawal, the Collector’s fingers closed back together and _slammed_ back into Arkin violently and without warning. A gasping cry was all but shoved out of the smaller man’s mouth as those latex covered knuckles thrust against the outside of his filled opening. The slam vibrated through him like the spreading force of an earthquake. Between his thighs, Arkin’s dangling, traitorous cock pulsed almost painfully in response to the single thrust. Shit. Purely physical, purely physical…

Again, the fingers withdrew, quicker this time, only to slam home again. Biting down on his lower lip hard enough to reopen the pin holes where his stitches had been, Arkin managed to restrain himself into groaning low in his throat and nothing more. And yet the sound was still audible. Without pause, the fingers jerked out of him and shoved roughly back inside once more. A soft obscenity hissed out between Arkin’s grit teeth. Just like going to the doctor, right. Self-loathing burned like a wild fire in his core as his ass greedily accepted the fingers being fucked into it. _Whore._ “No, nononono…” The words of denial were exhaled in a low, quiet plea. Blood trickled into the smaller man’s prick as it swelled and hardened in response to the jarring waves of pleasure.

Not even half hard yet, but knowing he _could_ get there, Arkin focused on the Collector attacking him, hurting him, torturing him. If he could just think about that enough, then he could- Inside of him, the masked man’s fingers curled down and struck against a spot that sent a white hot bolt of pleasure up Arkin’s spine and directly into his brain. A pulse of clear pre splashed out of his still mostly soft cock to mark the towel like a badge of shame. Thoughts scrambled, the thief was unaware of the gasping, breathless cry of pleasure that exploded into the air. The fingers stuttered and lost their rhythm. And then their motions stopped all together… Despite the welling nausea, Arkin’s hips _wanted_ to tip backwards beseechingly. Hating himself more than ever, he held perfectly fucking still, save for the shaking tremors which wracked his body. Curiously, the fingers which remained inside him pressed firmly down, searching, seeking… Involuntarily, his ass clenched around the fingers as though trying to pull them in deeper as the Collector found what he was looking for.

Arkin could practically _feel_ the big man’s eyes on him, watching him… Completely exposed, his cock throbbed shamefully, sickeningly- already half hard and getting harder every time those fingers twitched down. If the Collector looked lower, there was no way to hide his body’s humiliating _physical_ response… The thief heard the exact moment when the masked man glanced down and spotted his flushed, leaking cock. The ragged breathing sucked in and stopped. For a moment, his captor was perfectly stone still and in that moment, terror rushed through Arkin. What if the big man took this poorly? What if he saw it as…as some kind of come on? What if he was one of those people who really, really hated fags? The masked man certainly seemed to hate being called anything that implied Arkin thought he was queer.

Quick as a snake, the hand on Arkin’s hip shot up and grabbed onto his shoulder instead. The world spun dizzily as he was suddenly yanked up right onto his knees. He gasped roughly as the change in position forced his ass to settle back on the Collector’s fingers, pushing them deeper… The damp, coarse fabric of the big man’s sweater rubbed against his back. Through the layers of muscle, flesh, and cloth the thief could feel the Collector’s heart pounding in his chest. A thick arm wrapped tightly around him, holding him flush against the big man’s front. Shivering, trembling, and certain something unspeakably fucking awful was about to happen to him the thief cringed as he heard himself whisper in a sick, petrified voice, “S-sorry…”

The Collector’s head, which loomed over his shoulder, snapped to the side and those inky eyes bored into Arkin’s own until he looked away, cheeks flushed in shame and unwanted, unwilling lust. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ Behind him, the masked man began to breathe again…but each breath shuddered out. Slowly, the fingers inside him curled and both men watched, the Collector with fascination and Arkin with sick disgusted horror, as the smaller man’s cock oozed a thick glob of nearly clear fluid. The arm holding him in place shifted and the hand which had been pressed to his chest began to venture south. Shaking and unable to stop shaking, the thief fought to breathe as he watched the Collector’s hand sliding down over his belly, latex covered nails scraping against his skin. With nothing else to do with his hands, Arkin reached back without thinking and held onto his captor’s hips. It felt stupid to just have his arms dangling there uselessly, helplessly… Thick, blunt fingers glided over his groin and settled on either side of his cock where it joined his body. Arkin’s prick jutted up defiantly between the masked man’s middle and ring finger. Slowly, those fingers slid together to press against the sides of the thief’s still hardening member. Neither man moved. Both breathed quickly and unevenly.

Near tears, Arkin waited to be hurt, waited to have his cock squeezed until he screamed, to have it bent back on itself, to have it yanked, struck, or any number of agonizing, humiliating punishments. …It wouldn’t have been the first time. Again, he whispered in a pleading, panicked voice. “I’m sorry!” With the Collector, bruises and abrasions were, truth be told, the least of his worries. If his captor decided he didn’t like Arkin’s hard-on, he would probably just cut it off. Or lock him back in the trunk to die. Or both…

Tentatively, the masked man’s hand wrapped around the smaller man’s cock and squeezed gingerly. It pulsed in his grasp without bothering to ask its owner’s permission. Arkin’s teeth chattered faintly together as every single nerve in his body seemed to hum with the anxious feeling of waiting for the guillotine’s blade to fall. In slow succession, the big man’s fingers tightened, starting with the finger closest to Arkin’s body and ending with the finger closest to the head of his cock. Blood pumped hot and eager into Arkin’s dick, filling it, causing it to swell and harden and _throb_ in the Collector’s grasp. Inside his stretched opening, those fingers crooked again, pressing, searching…and at the same time he squeezed the smaller man’s prick. A low groan of surprise and pleasure broke free of Arkin’s mouth like a mustang from an ill-built corral. The bright blush of humiliation spread across his cheeks and down onto his chest.

The pain had to be coming and if not…if not…Beside his head, the Collector’s tongue darted out frequently to lick his lips and the shuddering quality of his breathing suggested that perhaps he wasn’t _angry_ with Arkin. Perhaps he was something else… Beside the hand pressed against and into his ass, he could feel something _else_ resting firmly against his body. A low, soft whine swelled up in the back of Arkin’s throat. This could be very, very bad… Hot nausea rippled through his belly as his breaths came in short, panicked gasps. The large bulge resting up against him jerked as he whined. No, oh please no…. The hand on his cock did not loosen, nor did it move. The masked man watched the thief’s reactions with curiosity…and recognition. Tentatively, his hand squeezed around Arkin’s shaft and the hardened flesh throbbed in response…but the little thief still looked as though he might be sick at any moment; burning tears rolled down his cheeks.

Suddenly, the big man jerked his hand back as though he had touched a hot stove instead of another man’s cock. The masked man’s hand vanished out of sight, leaving Arkin temporarily free…but the thief didn’t fucking dare move. Running hadn’t helped him last time, it only made things worse

The fingers spreading him open likewise withdrew with sudden violence, but that did little to calm Arkin down. Generally, if you were going to fuck someone, you took your fingers out of them first. Half tempted to start calling the bigger man insults again in a bid to avoid the inevitable, Arkin nevertheless remained silent. Go along to get along, go along to get along… The trunk was still standing open across the room. He could almost feel its hungry, oppressive presence.

The sharp snap of latex. Shifting…but no sound of a zipper being pulled down.

Instinct rather than sense caused Arkin to slam his elbow back into the Collector’s ribs as the larger man grabbed him around the waist and shoulders with both arms and hauled him backwards. A huffing grunt of hot air ruffled his hair, but the masked man did not release him. Easily, the Collector settled down to sit cross legged on the floor while bodily hauling the thief into his lap. Beneath him, Arkin could feel only fabric, no flesh. Firmly, but not crushingly the big man held him… _hugged_ him against him. Squirming uncomfortably, the thief froze when his wriggling ground him down against what was very fucking obviously a serial killer’s fucking hard-on. Behind him, the Collector’s ragged breathing rasped rapidly in and out; each exhale was accompanied by a faint whisper of a growl.

“Didn’t mean to elbow you.” Arkin grumbled, meaning to explain, to be good. “Startled me…” The arm around his waist gave an extra tight little squeeze. Nervous, edgy, waiting for the other shoe to drop, Arkin fell silent. The warm bulk behind and beneath him made no attempt to move, to grind up against him. Both hands remained in acceptable, non-sexual places. Slowly, the paranoia began to ebb and confusion took its place.

He might not appreciate being called queer, but… At least one part of the Collector wanted to fuck him. …So…why wasn’t that happening? The majority of the thief was overwhelmingly relieved to find himself in _this_ position rather than something more compromising, more sickening and humiliating…but a tiny, very much loathed and buried part of himself ached and missed the contact. Still thrust up from his loins, his cock pulsed in time with his heartbeat, sore and starting to hurt like the nerve in a tooth on the cusp of dying. 

Swallowing hard, his throat dry and sore, Arkin _made_ himself speak. “Sorry…don’t think you’re…y’know…queer or anything. I wasn’t- wasn’t trying to…to imply that…or anything… ‘m not. I’m **not** either- Just a physical thing, that shit’s _involuntary_ …” His rough, hoarse voice held a note of pleading. Please know what the fuck I’m talking about, please believe me, please don’t do something horrible… The Collector patted him firmly…which seemed to be confirmation that yeah, ok, he knew. Arkin released the breath he’d been holding in anticipation of pain in a sudden rush. Still utterly fucking exhausted, he slumped back against the unyielding body behind him.

Couldn’t remember the last time someone comforted him when he cried. Couldn’t remember the last time he took a bath. Couldn’t remember the last time someone _tended_ to him so carefully. Couldn’t remember the last time someone held him without the slightest sign of impatience. …Couldn’t remember the last time his discomfort and fear had _meant_ anything to the person touching him…

Beneath him, the Collector shifted slightly. His larger, gloved hands settled over Arkin’s smaller, bare hands and manipulated them. A surge of fresh panic struck him as the Collector forced him to wrap one hand around his own cock. The big man’s hand pushed Arkin’s hand down almost to the base…but he didn’t draw it back up, didn’t force his captive to jerk off for his amusement or some sick shit. Two fingers firmly pressed down on the back of the thief’s hand before the Collector let him go. Blushing darkly, Arkin sat in a serial killer’s lap and held his own semi-hard dick. In all the ways Arkin had imagined his life might go, this particular scenario hadn’t come up…

Moving his fingers carefully, the big man moved the thief’s other hand to the tip of his prick. Gingerly, both men- moving in concert- pushed Arkin’s foreskin back as far as it would go. Angry red stripes still crossed the thief’s swollen glans from where the surgical tape had held his catheter in. The edges of his urethra looked tender and inflamed. Arkin grimaced at the sight. Again, the Collector tapped the back of his hand and drew back, leaving him holding the tip of his prick, just behind the head. Only when the big man’s hand came back into view, a glob of clear ointment on the tip of his index finger did Arkin understand why he was sitting there, literally and figuratively, holding his dick. Gently, the masked man swirled his finger around the tip of the smaller man’s cock, smearing the ointment over the raw patches.

Cringing, Arkin hissed a soft groan of pain and discomfort. The temperature difference between his half hard cock and the cool gel was almost as uncomfortable as the pressure on his glans. When the Collector withdrew, he assumed they were done. Of course they weren’t done. The Collector was never done with him when he thought it was over. Holding a thin metal rod in one hand, the masked man wrapped his other hand over Arkin’s fingers and guided them up onto the very tip of his cock. A pathetic whimper of pain slunk up the thief’s throat as the big man forced him to pinch down on the incredibly tender tissue. Arkin’s cumslit opened slightly under the pressure. Without pause, the Collector pushed the slick tip of the metal rod into the tiny opening. Arkin struggled to sit still as the cool, unyielding tool slid smoothly and quickly down _inside_ his cock. As with the catheter, he could feel it moving inside him…but the sensation was different when his prick was half hard.

Any faint tendrils of tentative pleasure, however, were quashed quickly by the stinging pain at the mouth of his urethra. His flesh didn’t appreciate being violated again so soon.

Turning his head to the side, Arkin closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, tried to ignore the pain as the Collector withdrew the rod, dipped it into the clear gel, and pushed both gel and tool back into his prick. Inside him, the metal pulled back slowly only to shove back in deeper. As with the thief’s ass, what started out as something medicinal quickly became derailed by the Collector’s…fascinations. Behind him, that powerful chest rose and fell quickly. Arkin didn’t want to look at his captor’s face. He didn’t want to see him licking his lips and watching with that intense expression. Under the smaller man’s ass, he could still feel the rigid bulge of the Collector’s cock pressing up against him. Whenever he cringed or whined or whimpered, the mask man’s erection throbbed hard enough that Arkin could feel it through his clothes.

Just when the smaller man thought he couldn’t take it anymore, the rod slipped back out and did not return.

Following the tap and point or tap and tap somewhere else based prompts, Arkin crawled off the Collector’s lap and back onto the towel. Between his legs, his sore cock was, thankfully, softening. Vaguely faint from a combination of very little food and very little rest, emotionally and physically exhausted, the thief peered sleepily up at his captor. Towering over him, the Collector was silent and still. The outline of his thick cock against his pants was fucking impossible to miss. Arkin tried, pointedly, to not look at it, to not see it.

Breathing hard, his shoulders squared and both hands flexing repeatedly, the Collector stared down at his naked, hunched captive. Something over bright and too intense in the masked man’s eyes made Arkin’s muscles tense. There was a violence in those eyes, a promise that things could turn very nasty very quickly. Hunching his shoulders, the little thief crossed his arms over his lower belly and leaned forward modestly, protectively. Long minutes ticked by in silence. With an aggravated roll of his shoulders, the big man snatched up a clean, dry towel and wrapped it roughly around Arkin’s shoulders. Every motion spoke of restrained tension. Uncertain what he could have possibly fucking done wrong, the thief made no attempts to move, nothing that might be a step in the wrong direction.

His stride confident but clipped, the Collector crossed the room and all but disappeared into a spot of lingering darkness.

Shivering, dreading what was to come, Arkin watched as the darkness jerked down to one side and crumpled on the floor. A curtain. A curtain which had been blocking off part of the room, hiding something… The click of a lighter as the Collector crouched and a bright flame burned to life. From candle to candle, the flame skipped and spread rapidly until the hidden object stood inside a puddle of light. The flickering lights reflected off the glossy red paint. Against his will, Arkin whined in the back of his throat and shook his head in mute denial. As though he hadn’t seen the motion, the masked man opened the blood colored trunk and turned to face the thief.

Arkin’s eyes darted back and forth from the trunk to his captor. “I did…I did everything you wanted…” He whispered through numb lips and chattering teeth. Almost inperceptively, the Collector nodded once in agreement. “I was _good_!” He hated how his voice cracked slightly with frustration and emotion on the last word, but that hate was easy to ignore in the face of more pressing, rectangular concerns. Again, the faintest nod. With one hand, the masked man gestured towards the trunk, a command masquerading as an invitation. The room blurred into hazy light as tears stung Arkin’s eyes. He’d been good! He’d been good! Didn’t that matter?! “I don’t _wanna_ go in there, man…” He whispered, almost too soft to be heard but the big man heard him nonetheless.

Unwavering, silent, motionless, the Collector stared Arkin down with soulless, reflective eyes and waited. His hand remained extended towards the trunk for the moment. But doubtlessly, his patience had limits and in the thief’s experience, the big man was prone to swift and violent mood changes.

There were doors…but there had been a door in the last room too. And the black trunk was still there, with all its horrible restrains and utilitarian medical devices. Red or black, black or red… Sighing in defeat, Arkin grabbed the edges of the towel and pulled it more tightly around himself. Half way up to one knee, he froze suddenly, almost tipping over, as the Collector snarled from across the room. Two latex covered fingers pointed downward sharply, aggressively. Without verbalizing his confusion, Arkin dropped back down onto both knees. The Collector’s hand did not move. Only when the thief knelt on all fours once again, his body held submissively close to the ground, did the big man turn his fingers over and crook them twice at Arkin. Immediately and without thinking, the thief scoffed.

“Man, you gotta be kidding me…”

Of course, he knew the kidnapping, murderous sonofabitch wasn’t kidding. The words were out of his mouth, a banner of outrage, before he could grab onto them and yank them back inside. Once again, those two fingers jerked towards the Collector and the trunk as though Arkin were a fish to be reeled in. “Man wants me to be a dog,” The smaller man murmured ruefully under his breath. “Bet he’d feed a dog.” Abruptly, the big man dropped his hand and Arkin knew his time was up, no more stalling. With grit teeth, he grabbed a clean towel off the top of the stack and threw it towards the trunk. One after another, he hurled them all across the room while his captor watched curiously. If this was going to be unpleasant for him, then it could at the very fucking least be _inconvenient_ for the masked man. Give the prick a bigger mess to clean up. …And the thief had no desire to crawl across those dingy, filthy tiles with his sore, raw knees.

Shuffling forward off the first towel, he spread out the second before crawling onto it, then the third, and so on until the black maw of the trunk, resting on its side, yawned open before him. The interior looked uncomfortable, splintery and hard and cold. When he paused, hesitated, the Collector took the opportunity to relieve him off the towel wrapped around his shoulders with a single, hard yank. Cringing inward, his empty belly gnawing on itself, Arkin slowly put both hands down inside the trunk. Weights seemed to restrain his legs as he reluctantly lifted them and pulled them in behind himself. Crouched fully inside the blood scented box, the little thief shivered. Without needing further direction, Arkin hunkered down on his knees and elbows. His eyes clenched shut as his chest tightened. No, he didn’t want this…but the Collector clearly didn’t care if he wanted to be in a box or not.

Warm, latex covered fingers carded though his damp hair. Soft shushing sounds whispered above Arkin’s head. And then the hand withdrew. And the lid slammed shut above him. Once more, his world became claustrophobic darkness and cold. In the abyssal night, surrounded by the smell of his own blood and that of countless others, Arkin’s belly gurgled unhappily, and the thief buried his head against his forearms. Legs hurting, ass hurting, soul hurting…But it could have been worse. At least he hadn’t been forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four times. I rewrote this bitch four times. Which, I guess, is fitting since it's chapter four. I'm still not really over the moon about the quality of this chapter, but I had to stop poking it or I was going to make it worse. This is the first time I've written and published smut! I'm very proud. 
> 
> I don't really recall much of Arkin's family and friends dynamic from the first film, only that everyone except for his little girl pissed me off and made me want to give Arkin a hug. So, if I'm misremembering or something and Lisa was really there for him or supportive or something in the movie, then just uhm....consider his being isolated and alone in my story to be part of the AU.


	5. Symmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arkin wants to eat. The Collector wants to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this took a little while, eh? I'm sorry about the delay. 
> 
> Hopefully this chapter's content will make up for the wait? There's more smut in this chapter, sort of a continuation from the smut last chapter. I'm not 100% happy with the writing at the end of the chapter but endings are hard and I'm never really 100% happy with my work. 
> 
> There's more allusions to Arkin's past trauma, before the Collector, but there are no flashbacks or details. There is some very, very dubious consent and gay sex. ...Which, tbh, you probably expect by now. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy.

Gravity shifted suddenly as one end of the world unexpectantly rose up. Fingers scrabbling for purchase in the blind darkness, Arkin slid across the smooth interior of the trunk. A soft, quick grunt-gasp of surprise escaped him before he could quiet it. With his legs bunched under him at an awkward angle, the tired thief braced his arms against either wall of the trunk and held on. The trunk rattled and jostled roughly as it scrapped and drug across the tile floor. Pulled along like a suitcase at the airport, Arkin pressed one ear to the trunk’s side, closed his eyes, and focused.

 Beneath the dull scrap of the trunk over the floor, he could _almost_ hear the faint thud of the masked man’s boots on the floor. A pause. One hard, long tug. Beneath him, the floor’s sound and texture changed and became smoother and more hollow. Wood, maybe? Another pause and in the silence, the click of a lock, maybe… Tugs and pauses at random intervals. At one point, the Collector laid the trunk flat and pushed it along the floor for several yards. Although the texture and sound of the floor rarely changed, the smells and sounds did. Decay, vomit, shit, and piss. Gun powder, smoke, rubbing alcohol, harsh chemicals, and hot metal. Low mechanical humming, soft sobs, distant screams and howls of acute agony. Once a faint twang like piano wire snapping followed by wet, desperate gurgling.

Within the relative safety of the trunk, the little thief cringed in against himself. The need to hear and assess his surroundings warred with the horrific fear and disgust at _what_ he was hearing. Pressing his ear to the thin wooden wall was akin to pressing his ear to Hell’s backdoor.

Heart thudding fearfully, throat burning with bile, and eyes burning with tears, Arkin whined when the trunk suddenly dropped flat once more and did not resume any sort of motion. Outside, a door closed heavily, definitively. Two soft, subtle metallic clicks close by and the lid of the trunk rose less than half an inch. A thin shaft of low, cool light reached into the secure darkness of his snug little world. …But the lid didn’t raise further. Unable to help himself, a slave to his own curiosity, Arkin rose up on his knees and carefully nudged the lid open further.

Like a god made of pitch, the Collector towered over him.

Frozen by fear and indecision, Arkin stared up at the masked man and did not move. Slowly, the Collector’s head tilted to the side. Both thumbs hooked into his belt on either side of his groin. There was no commanding gesture- no pointing, no tapping. No guidance. Licking his sore, bloody lips quickly, Arkin assessed the situation. The lid was unlocked. The masked man stood far enough back that if the little thief _wanted_ to leave the trunk, he could. Of course, what Arkin wanted had not taken any part in his life recently. Gingerly, waiting for a slap or a snarl, the smaller man raised an arm and shoved the trunk lid fully open. The wood and metal top slammed loudly against the floor behind him; the sound echoed. When the Collector didn’t react, Arkin took a moment to take in his surroundings.

Nearly empty, the barren room was lit by faintly blue tinted lights hidden somewhere in the pipes overhead. Shadows crouched bitterly along the room’s edges and the space behind the trunk, away from the big man, was darkest of all. Sheets of almost clear plastic hung along the walls and covered floor. Behind the sheets, some sort of metal grid covered bare sheetrock. The stinging stench of rubbing alcohol was almost chokingly present, but compared to the other things Arkin had smelled through the walls of the trunk, it was as welcome as a breath of fresh, spring air. Glancing down, the little thief frowned. A wide sheet of canvas, the sort painters used, covered the floor from the front wall of his trunk to well behind the Collector. And behind the Collector, a dark curtain obscured the rest of the room.

As unmoving as stone, the big man watched Arkin with bright, glittering eyes as the thief visibly took stock of the situation.

There didn’t _seem_ to be anything threatening or dangerous in the room- other than the Collector himself. But just because it looked safe didn’t mean it actually was safe. He’d learned that lesson very, very well in the house. “Fuck it...” Arkin muttered under his breath as he gingerly stretched out of the trunk and crawled onto the surprisingly smooth drop cloth. Between the edges of the mask, the big man’s mouth _almost_ smiled. Remaining on hands and knees- see, he could learn- Arkin crawled slowly away from the trunk, eager to distance himself from it. Which, of course, meant crawling _towards_ a violent serial killer who had kidnapped and tortured him…

Tucking his legs under himself, Arkin sat back on his heels and peered up at the big man, his arms crossed protectively over his lower belly. Beneath the medical, chemical stench there was a faint wisp of something…better. Something…savory. The little thief’s mouth watered at the slightest hint of food.

Silently, the Collector stepped forward, stepped into his space and crouched down. Even though Arkin flinched back, their faces were still…uncomfortably close together. After the _incident_ in the other room, the little thief was understandably concerned what this almost intimate closeness could mean. With surprising gentleness, the masked man took Arkin’s right wrist in his hand and drew it away from his body. The scarred over lines, straight and slanted, stood out like ink on snow against Arkin’s pale, vulnerable flesh. Swallowing hard, the smaller man’s eyes ticked from the obvious marks on his arm to the Collector’s ‘face’. True enough, his captor had already seen the marks several times but his insistence on seeing them now was…concerning.

Gingerly, one latex covered finger, warm and smooth, stroked each fresh scar in turn, tracing them in the order Arkin had carved them. ..Which implied he might know what they meant. Goosebumps rippled across his skin in the wake of the barely-there caresses. Shivering, the thief’s bright eyes watched the masked man closely. Reluctantly, the Collector pressed Arkin’s arm down against his thigh and held it there for a moment, extended, marks on display. The firm pressure on his wrist, pushing it against his leg, was all Arkin needed to remain still and leave his arm where it was. Once again, the big man grabbed onto the slender wrist of his captive and drew his left arm out. A thumb smoothed over the skin on the underside of Arkin’s wrist in slow, soothing circles.

With his free hand, the masked man stroked the unmarked underside of Arkin’s arm. …And then he paused. Within the mask’s slit, those pink lips turned downward. Immediately, the little thief tensed, muscles going rigid. He knew his captor could feel the change, the subtle shift of tendons and muscle under the skin and part of him hoped that would be a good thing, that it would be…Well, pleasing wasn’t the right word but at the moment, he was having a little trouble accessing his mental thesaurus, what with a psychopath holding all the cards and looking annoyed with him. Still holding onto Arkin’s left wrist, the Collector shifted his attention to the right arm…then back again. Although puzzled at first, the thief’s lips parted in a slow, shuddering exhale as he realized what was different between his arms. “Ah. Fuck.”

The right arm was scored by rich, red hash marks. The left arm wasn’t. Asymmetrical.

A gloved hand, the one not holding his wrist, settled firmly atop his head and ruffled through his damp hair, standing it up in awkward spikes. When Arkin’s eyes cut up from his arm to the big man’s face, he found that the ghost of a smile had returned. Arkin slowly shook his head. Firmly, the big man pressed down on both of Arkin’s wrists. Straightening up, rising to his feet, the Collector pointed at Arkin, then the floor, and held up a single finger. And then he left. Soundlessly despite his size, the Collector disappeared behind the curtain and left Arkin alone. Without needing to be told, the thief knew this was a test.

He _could_ get up and try to find a way out or a weapon to use against the masked man…and risk being punished if he failed. _Or_ he could sit and stay like a good dog and wait to be cut open for the sake of fucking symmetry. Jaw set in a look of intense displeasure, Arkin rolled his shoulders…and stayed on his knees. Even as his feet began to go numb and tingly beneath him, he didn’t move. Time drug on slow and sluggish. Despite the uncomfortable position, despite being so exposed and vulnerable, against all odds Arkin could feel his heavy eyelids trying to close. Over and over again he jerked his head up as his chin bumped his collarbone, driven by the need to stay awake and _aware_. …But he must have fallen asleep.

The backs of warm, smooth fingers caressed Arkin’s cheek slowly. With extreme reluctance, the little thief’s eyelids fluttered open. Barely an inch separated his face from the Collector’s. The big man’s breath ghosted over his lips, close enough to kiss. With a faint grunt of surprise, Arkin jerked his head back, but otherwise did not move from his assigned position. Eyes crinkling up in an almost fond expression, his captor rested a hand on top of his head for a long moment. Breathing fast and shallow, the thief’s eyes flicked over the big man, assessing once more. Without removing his hand from Arkin’s head, the Collector withdrew a long, shining silver blade from a sheath hidden in his belt. Bright sparkles danced in the air as the razor sharp edge of the knife caught the cool light and threw it back.

Arkin swallowed hard. But didn’t move. Go along to get along. Go along to get along. He’d carved those scars into himself with a piece of dull metal he broke off the inside of the trunk. If he could do that to himself, then he could withstand this. Earn himself more favor, more trust…

Two fingers rested lightly upon the inside of Arkin’s right wrist, over his pulse point. If the smaller man _wanted_ to, he could easily jerk his arm back. The Collector wasn’t pinning him in place. At least, not physically. Shivering, goosebumps rose across Arkin’s forearm as the very edge of the blade stroked across his scars. Back and forth, up and down…Every muscle tense, his instincts screaming at him to fight, the little thief waited for the cutting to begin. But the Collector took his time. Inhaling deeply, he leaned closer to Arkin, until their faces almost, almost touched once more. Before the pain, before the smaller man could realize that he was wounded, the blood welled up along the first scar. Almost garish in the cool light, a thin rivulet of red snaked across Arkin’s pale arm and dripped onto his thigh.

Cold- biting, stinging cold. The pain slit across his arm like a papercut, more sting than actual pain at first. Both men watched as the scalpel sharp knife caressed the first scar and deepened the cut, widened it. Teeth grit against the pain as it surged through his skin, Arkin panted hard through his nose. As his nerves caught up with the damage, the faint sting deepened into a rich, hot agony. Over and over, the blade stroked _into_ his skin and worsened the wound, licking through the same slit repeatedly. In the back of his throat, Arkin groaned miserably. Across from him, the Collector’s breath shuddered. Shaking, struggling against his desire to get away from the source of the harm, Arkin forced himself be as still as possible. Let the masked man get it over with. Just get it over with…

Sweat slicked the thief’s skin. A soft whimper of despairing pain creaked from between Arkin’s bloody lips. Without noticing his own actions, he shook his head slowly, a silent plea. Quick as a snake, the knife cut through the second scar. Soft shushing sounds of comfort whispered through the air even as the man making the sounds continued to hurt him. The actions repeated themselves as the masked man deepened the second scar just as he’d deepened the first. Each breath panted out through the thief’s nose was edged with a soft whine of pain. Arkin’s teeth clenched down upon the inside of his cheek as he struggled, and failed, to remain silent. Spine curving forward, the thief bowed inward protectively against the pain and shame.

Rough fabric covering unyielding muscle pressed against Arkin’s forehead. It was impossible with such intimate closeness for him to curl in on himself without touching the Collector. Within his flesh, the blade’s motion jerked to a halt. Warm breath brushed against the side of his neck. Arkin could feel the big man’s gaze resting heavy upon him, but he didn’t move, didn’t look up. If reducing how exposed he was meant leaning against his captor, so be it. Naked, slicked with sweat and blood, arms resting atop his thighs leaving his entire middle exposed- vulnerable didn’t begin to cover how the thief felt. After a long pause, the big man returned to his task. Now those soft sounds of comfort blew directly into Arkin’s ear, tickling against his sensitive skin. A faint shudder traced up the thief’s spine.

Slowly, he tipped his head down until he could watch the Collector work. Not seeing, not knowing when the next cut would come, was worse than having to watch. In hushed silence broken only by low shushes of comfort and soft moans of pain, the two men watched the knife slip through the thief’s soft flesh. His skin parted like wanton lips, each wound deep enough to see into. They breathed together, the big man and his captive, subconsciously matching their pattern of inhales and exhales. Exquisite fire laced through Arkin’s skin, burning and stinging and aching. A low, rough groan rippled through the air as the blade paused inside his body and pressed down firmly. Against him, the thief felt the masked man tremble in response to his groan. Drawing the task out, the Collector lingered on the last scar, dragging his blade slowly through it. The little thief’s breath caught and hung in his throat in a ragged gasp as the masked man’s thumb rubbed over that final cut.

Arkin blinked slowly as a heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him back. The Collector studied the thief’s face- his parted and bruised lips, his wide pupils, the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his flushed cheeks. His own lips parted slightly as though in wonder, the big man took Arkin’s chin in his hand and ran his bloody thumb over the little thief’s mouth. Wet latex smoothed over blood and saliva slicked skin.

A flash of rebellion sparked in those bright blue eyes, but Arkin didn’t bite down. Holding perfectly still, being _good_ , Arkin let the Collector push his thumb into his mouth. The digit rubbed slowly across his tongue, smearing the taste- a very familiar taste by now- of his own blood in his mouth. The masked man watched him closely, intensely. There was something feral in those eyes, something that sank dread into the pit of his stomach…but all of him wasn’t afraid, per say. Reflex, reflex and nothing more, moved his tongue to rub against that intruding finger. Arkin felt the heat rise in his cheeks as the Collector’s breath hitched.

With almost exaggerated slowness, the masked man drew his thumb from between his captive’s lips as he stood. At his feet, Arkin’s brow furrowed in confusion. Silently, the thief glanced down at his still unmarked left forearm before looking quizzically back up at the big man. The answer came in the form of a piece of metal tossed onto the floor between the thief’s knees. Hesitantly, Arkin picked up the twisted fragment with his left hand, holding his injured arm still, and realized why the Collector had stood. A soft, scoffing laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Holding up the very piece of metal he’d broken off from the inside of the trunk to mark his right arm, he wiggled it back and forth at his captor. “You really expect me to go on and cut myself for you?” Arkin asked, incredulity lacing every syllable.

Within the slit of his mask, the Collector’s mouth tensed as though Arkin’s tone, or insolence, annoyed him. Nonetheless, rather than strike the impudent thief down, he gestured simply towards the smaller man’s bleeding right arm.

“Well yeah, but that-“ The little thief began, then paused. Above him, the sudden cock of the Collector’s head seemed mocking, the little tilt of one side towards him seemed to ask him to speak up. But what? But what, Arkin? That had been because he had to? Because he thought it would help him survive later on? Frowning, the thief looked from the Collector to the metal in his hand. “Point taken…” He muttered almost under his breath, but he _knew_ the masked man heard him. “Gonna mirror the lines, if it’s all the same to you. It’ll look stupid if I don’t.” If he **had** to mutilate himself and bear the marks of this, he was going to at least have some say in it. A brief pause to see if there was any objection. There wasn’t.

Inhaling slowly, shudderingly, Arkin switched the rough metal from his left hand to his right and once more lay his left arm down atop his thigh. There really was no choice. Without raising his head, the thief raised his eyes and confirmed what he suspected. The Collector was watching him. Closely. Well, better to jump into cold water than wade into it. Without lowering his eyes, Arkin pressed the metal shard into his forearm and tore open his own flesh.

The difference between the scalpel sharp blade of the Collector and his pitiful, dull scrap of metal was significant. The knife slipped through his skin almost sweetly. The shard ripped and tore through his tender flesh as though it had some grudge to settle with him. A choking, sick groan snarled out between Arkin’s clenched teeth as too hot pain bit into him. This pain clawed at his nerves and there was no waiting for the hurt to come while you watched the blood well up. Both pain and blood came together- old friends by now. Tendons standing out in his arm, muscles jumping and skin twitching like an over-worked horse, Arkin raked the scrap metal across his arm over and over again, deepening and widening the cut until it matched the one on his right arm. Wounded whimpers and unhappy moans joined the strained, explosive groans of pain. Blood streamed down his arm and ran across his leg; the flow tickled as it licked over his inner thigh.

Motion at the top of his vision grabbed Arkin’s attention and he glanced back up from studying his handiwork and planning the next cut. Across from him, not close enough to kiss but less than an arm span away, the Collector slowly crouched down to watch his captive work, to watch as the smaller man mutilated himself at the whims and behest of his captor. The black mirrors of his eyes caught the cool, blue light and threw it back in silver points. The masked man’s lips parted to allow his tongue to flick out and remained parted in its wake. Every breath taken was deep and slow, almost calm, but on the exhale his breath shuddered.

A low, liquid heat pooled in Arkin’s groin as he paused and studied the big man’s beetle black eyes and enraptured expression. _How many people has he stolen away in a box? Does he treat all of them like this? Does he…look at all of them like this?_ In bitter frustration, Arkin slapped **that** line of thought down hard. Wondering such things didn’t _mean_ anything and if he felt a little…warm then it was only the remaining traces of his purely _physical_ reaction that had been left unsatisfied. Unfinished. Left unfinished. Teeth grit against his own stumbling, chasing-their-own-tail thoughts as much as against the pain, the little thief ripped the scrap of metal down into his arm. A thin gout of blood arced from his flesh and splattered over his fingers and across his thighs. Gasping sharply, Arkin immediately regretted the fervor of his motions. Breathing shallowly, he eased the shard out of his skin and started over with a shallower tear.

As exposed as he’d ever been, put on display, preforming for a madman, chased by his own strange thoughts, sick humiliation rushed through the thief’s veins alongside the pain and something he refused to acknowledge, much less name. Forcing himself to not stop, to keep going, knowing that stopping would only make it harder to finish his task, Arkin spared the Collector another look. The expression remained the same… Crouched low, knees parted for stability, the big man’s pants strained tightly across his groin. And outlined against the taunt fabric was the girthy shadow of what Arkin had felt rubbing against him in the bathroom earlier. A sick spike of mild panic shot through his belly alongside a surge of flushed, fluttering heat. As the smaller man whimpered in pain, he actually could see that outline jump. Disgustedly fascinated, Arkin watched his captor’s hidden but obviously hard cock as he continued to hurt himself and vocalize his reactions to said hurt. As soon as he confirmed what he already knew, the smaller man dropped his gaze from the masked man’s groin, lest he be caught staring.

Unwilling to arouse the big man further, Arkin tried to bite back each and every sound but the fight to stay silent seemed to almost make the pain worse such that when he _did_ slip up and cry out, the noise was all the more richly agonized for his trouble.

At last, slicked with his own blood and shaking like a leaf, Arkin threw the scrap of metal aside and thrust his forearms out towards the Collector for him to compare and approve of. The masked man gave the cuts a cursory look over before nodding. After all, he’d been watching the entire time to make certain the lines were perfect. He didn’t need to inspect them now. Warm fingers wrapped around Arkin’s wrist and raised his bloody hand up to the slit in the big man’s mask. A hot, slick tongue lapped over the thief’s palm, gathering up the copious amounts of blood that had pooled there. Goosebumps rippled up Arkin’s arm as a low, harsh groan vibrated against the palm of his hand. Those ink black eyes slipped closed as the Collector’s lips and tongue moved against his captive’s coppery flesh. Cheeks flushed and eyes wide, Arkin did not offer even a token resistance as the big man cleaned the blood from his skin. Swallowing hard, the thief’s breath stuttered as two of his fingers were shoved almost aggressively between those soft, pink lips.

A hot tongue rubbed against the pads of his fingers as the Collector sucked easily on the lengths of Arkin’s middle and pointer fingers. Dull heat hammered like a second heartbeat through the thief’s loins. He might have breathed a soft obscenity or he might just have only thought it. Inky eyes half opened to peer at him with an almost drunken feverishness. Neither man broke eye contact as the big man slowly withdrew Arkin’s now clean, saliva wet fingers from his mouth only to replace them with the thief’s ring and pinky fingers. Those fingers and then Arkin’s thumb received similar treatment. Wordlessly, as his right hand was released free of blood, the thief offered up his left hand. Later he might question why, but for now…There was no conscious thought to the motion. A soft, half-feral snarl hissed from the Collector’s mouth and he grabbed the wrist of the offered hand bruise hard and jerked the bloody skin up to his mouth.

Breathing hard through his parted lips, Arkin watched with dull, over-heated amazement as the man holding him captive sucked on his bloody fingers as though they were candy. The Collector’s tongue worked fitfully, almost pleadingly against his fingers and it was impossible not to compare this act to something decidedly more carnal. Between his bloody thighs, Arkin’s cock, which had already turned traitor once, throbbed with the suggestion that it might turn traitor again. The intensity with which the big man sought out his blood and his almost drugged reaction to said blood was…captivating. Lost in watching those soft lips suck over the lengths of his fingers, Arkin didn’t question what the Collector might do next.

He probably should have.

As the thief’s slick fingers slid cleanly from this mouth, the masked man looked over his bloody prize with bold, possessive hunger. His dark gaze caught on the blood covering Arkin’s pale thighs and hung there as he panted raggedly. Arkin’s eyes followed the direction of the Collector’s stare and in doing so he deprived himself of any forewarning. Powerful hands grappled with the lean thief, shoving him backwards by his shoulders. With a small outcry of shock more than discomfort, Arkin fell back onto his ass and his knees reflexively rose as his legs slid out from under himself. “Wh-!” Hard enough to leave angry red marks on the smaller man’s skin, the Collector grabbed Arkin by the hips and jerked him forward. The canvas burned hot patches into the little thief’s skin as his lower half abruptly jerked towards the masked man. Falling back onto his elbows, breathing panic-hard, Arkin stared down at the Collector as the bigger man grabbed hold of his knees and easily spread his legs. Naked and less than fully flaccid, the exposed nature of the position and his familiarity with it did absolutely nothing to comfort the thief.

_Be good, be good!_

Easy to say, harder to do, but Arkin gave no resistance nor rebellion, save for a rabbit quick jerk of his knees back towards himself. Upper body half propped up on his arms, the little thief stared aghast down at the Collector. Burning black eyes stared lustfully into his very soul, reflecting his panicked, fearful expression back at him. Without offering any point or tap commands, the masked man switched his hold such that his big hands held Arkin’s legs up and open by gripping them by the thighs, just behind the knee. With a low, animalic rumble of pure want the Collector lowered his head and drug his tongue over his captive’s inner thigh. Shuddering hard, Arkin half managed to choke back a low moan as the big man’s hot tongue lapped over his skin and gathered up the blood which had run and dripped down onto his legs. Somewhat relieved now that he understood what the Collector was after, the thief tried to force himself to relax.

With the needy intensity of a dying man seeking water, the masked man licked and sucked every minute trace of blood from Arkin’s thighs. Head dropping backwards, Arkin panted harshly as the Collector’s teeth clamped down on the inside of his thigh. The sting of the bite was soothed moments later by the firm strokes of that strong tongue against his sensitive skin. A half formed thought along the lines of ‘what has my fucking life turned into’ was shattered as that suckling, biting mouth clamped down onto the flesh over Arkin’s hip, near where his leg met his groin. Both hands came up to cover his mouth, to hold any traitorous sounds inside, and in doing so Arkin smeared blood from his slit arms over his chest and upper belly. Flat on his back, the thief lost sight of the masked man, but it was worth it to have his hands over his mouth. _This is fuckin’ ridiculous…_ His mind groaned dizzily as his loins pulsed with nauseating heat. _Fucker probably put something in the water…_ Yeah, that would make sense. That would explain his responses. Yeah, drugged water. Sure.

Down the thief’s other thigh, the Collector licked and sucked, occasionally leaving behind angry red welts with his teeth and lips. As before, when the big man ran out of blood to lap up like cream, he looked for another source. The fresh smears across Arkin’s torso, such a striking color contrast, was immediately eye-catching.

The warm, heavy bulk of the big man’s body settled between Arkin’s splayed thighs and the thief’s head snapped up. Still fully clothed, the Collector’s groin pressed flush against him. There was no way to close his thighs, not with the masked man between them, and as he squirmed, Arkin succeeded only in grinding himself firmly against the larger man’s restrained erection. Before he could stop himself, he slammed both hands against his captor’s shoulders in a weakened attempt to shove him off. As though batting aside a gnat, the Collector grabbed both of the little thief’s wrists easily in one hand and pinned them to the floor over Arkin’s head. Breath coming in short, harsh pants, the thief was in the midst of trying to come up with some plan, some way around this, when that attentive tongue lapped over his ribs. Cocking his head to the side, Arkin caught a glimpse of the blood he’d smeared up himself unintentionally. So relieved he could almost laugh, the smaller man slumped bonelessly back against the floor.

As though this were an inescapable cycle of the cosmos, as sure as the tides, the thief felt relief and the relief was short lived. Warm lips closed fully over one cold hardened, sensitive nipple and sucked hard. Choking out a moan, Arkin’s hips squirmed reflexively. “Aw fuck…” He breathed through grit teeth, wholly unclear if he was cursing because of his own stupidity in marking himself with blood like honey near a bear. …Or if he was cursing because of the force of the sensation. Lapping at him needfully, the Collector’s tongue flicked repeatedly over that captured nub, coaxing it to almost overstimulated hardness. Both of Arkin’s thighs clamped onto the masked man’s waist and held him tightly. Trembling, the captive bit down on his lips hard enough to pull the holes from his stitches open again. Hate it though he may, and he **did** hate it, Arkin couldn’t deny his body’s reaction to such blatantly sexual stimulation, no matter how much said reaction might disgust him. Abandoning his current target, the Collector licked and bit his way across the thief’s chest to assault the unattended nipple. Slick with saliva, the cool air of the room played havoc with the wired nerves of Arkin’s sucked-to-hardness teat.

“The fuck are you doing, huh?” The thief panted roughly as he squirmed under the conflicting sensations- both of them unwelcome- pain and pleasure. “You gonna fucking eat me or something?” Although he didn’t expect anything he said to matter, Arkin hoped that the sound of his voice might grab the Collector’s attention and distract him long enough for the bigger man to get a-fucking-hold of himself. And it worked. Those beetle black eyes peered up at him and blinked slowly as the masked man licked Arkin’s blood from his lips. “Hey…” The thief’s soft tone shifted to _almost_ concern. “What’s going on with you?” Of course, Arkin was very fucking concerned by the Collector’s reaction to his blood. Concerned for his own safety because, as weird as everything so far had been, this was decidedly the weirdest thing so far. People kidnapped and hurt each other, sure. People did not do… this.

For one moment, some reason and humanity seemed to return to the big man as he leaned back slightly. Cool air rushed into the small space between the two men and chilled the thief’s damp flesh. Rising up more fully onto his knees, the Collector jerked Arkin’s arms down and held them side by side with one hand. The other hand braced against the floor beside the smaller man’s hip. Panting and snarling like a rabid dog, teeth and tongue attacked the recently mutilated flesh of the thief’s forearm.

A harsh, choked sound ripped out of Arkin’s mouth as his spine arched in agony. The skittering sounds the roaches had made as they fled their jar and burrowed into his flesh echoed faintly around him. Distantly, they gnawed against the thief’s belly as the Collector’s tongue flicked between the lips of one cut in a bloody parody of eating pussy. The thick, powerful muscle pushed insistently into the thief’s arm and raked over the raw tissue. “Fuck! Nonono, shit…” Wriggling and struggling to yank his arms down, Arkin panted vague denials and half formed pleas. Occasionally, those inky eyes glanced past his arm and to his face, but the Collector did not stop. Teeth tugged fitfully at the edges of the wounds, but they didn’t _rip_ into his flesh. Not like the bugs. But the threat of it… Whimpering almost constantly, Arkin slowly gave up struggling and lay limp against the floor. Unable to look away, the thief watched as the masked man tongue-fucked the gashes in his arm, a mixture of horror and heat roiling in his belly.

Over him, the big man groaned in low, animal delight as he drug his mouth over the thief’s arm, cleaning off all traces of blood while coaxing more to the surface. His lips sealed over the deep cut Arkin had torn into his left arm and _sucked_. A frigid bolt of pain shot like lightning up the smaller man’s arm and he bucked beneath his captor, briefly renewing his struggles. A hoarse, almost mournful scream pulled itself free from Arkin’s raw throat.

The little thief could _feel_ his blood flowing into the big man’s mouth, driving his bizarre hunger rather than satisfying it. Just as he could feel the Collector’s groin throbbing against him. Light headed and reeling, Arkin squirmed minutely, a faint and fading protest. “S-stop…please, man…please, just fucking stop…You’re gonna kill me…” Barely a whisper, the plea hung in the air and the masked man raised his bloody mouth to stare down at his pale, pale captive. Those soulless eyes were alive with a bright, hungry fire. Breathing hard, panting raggedly, the Collector glared at Arkin as though demanding an alternative to eating his new toy alive. Tiny twitches of the big man’s hips, pushing himself against the thief, suggested that perhaps blood lust wasn’t the _only_ factor driving the mad man’s actions.

Exhaling slowly, Arkin sighed and half nodded to himself. Taking calculated risks had worked out pretty ok for him so far. Each grind of that denim clad cock against his groin sent a dull pulse of heat through his veins. Gay or straight, it didn’t matter. The big man wanted something from him and he was worked up enough that he just might take it. Which…was an outcome the little thief dearly hoped to avoid. _Fucking devil’s bargain…Literally._ Licking his bloody lips, Arkin tipped his chin down towards his arms. “Gimme one of those back, ok? You can…you can keep the other one. Just…let me help you out, man.” Acid churned just below his throat, threatening to choke him. Familiar dealings. Staring into his cowering soul, those inky eyes considered… Slowly, the Collector’s grip loosened enough to allow the thief to pull his right arm free. Immediately, before he could reconsider and take a stupider course of action- which was saying something- Arkin took his life in his hand.

Or, more to the point, he took the Collector’s cock in his hand.

Trembling fingers slipped between them to cup the big man’s hardness through his pants. The reaction was immediate- a feral, threatening snarl in his face. But the big man didn’t pull his hips back. Swallowing hard, Arkin mimicked those shushing, comforting sounds the Collector had made at him. “S’ok, man. S’ok…just… lemme help you out. It doesn’t mean anything. Just… a little helping.” Gently, fingers that could pick just about any lock rubbed coaxingly against the psychopath’s restrained cock. Breathing hard, half snarling on every exhale, the big man didn’t answer Arkin’s words directly…but he didn’t put any nifty new holes in the thief either. Shaking from pain and adrenaline and the thing he wouldn’t name, the smaller man deftly thumbed open the button on the Collector’s pants and tugged down the zipper. As the masked man stared down at him with wide eyes and a flicker of stunned clarity, Arkin pushed down the elastic band of the underwear beneath those jeans.

Something hot and heavy slapped down against his own half erect prick.

“Oh…” Arkin groaned before he could stop himself. Blood loss. Blood loss and drugs. _This is so fucked up…_ Quickly, he jerked his hand up to his mouth and tried to spit in his palm only to discover that his mouth was too dry to give even a single drop. Quivering, every second counting, he awkwardly bent his hand backwards and offered his palm to the Collector. “Spit.” There was a _hint_ of command in his tone. Despite his reservations, the oily nausea in his belly, his position, and everything else that left him firmly as the _prey_ , not the _predator_ , this was something Arkin knew how to handle…and the masked man seemed at a distinct disadvantage. Still, the defiant moment lay heavily between them. Slowly, _almost_ hesitantly, those soft lips parted and the Collector spat a mouthful of slick saliva and blood into the thief’s waiting palm.

Not trusting himself to speak without tipping the precarious balance between life and death, Arkin shoved his hand back down and, with a shudder that _could_ have been revulsion, wrapped his slick fingers around the stout cock which pulsed against him with each beat of the Collector’s black heart. Moment of truth… As though stabbed in the gut, the big man hunched over the thief with a harsh, surprised groan. A thick glob of hot liquid oozed out onto Arkin’s forearm and sank, stinging, into one of the open wounds. “It’s ok, it’s ok…” He breathed slowly as he gave the length a slow, experimental pump. “Just helping you out, that’s all…” The smaller man’s own cock stood hard and expectant against the back of his hand.

The Collector slammed the wrist he still clutched to the floor and held it there with punishing force. Slowly, his masked head lowered to rest against Arkin’s bare shoulder. Hot, moist breath gusted over the smaller man’s skin. Half a beast in his blood lust and need, the big man moaned low and rough in the back of his throat while below his waist, those clever fingers worked his foreskin back to expose the head of his cock.

Gritting his teeth against the nearly bone crushing force of the Collector’s angry hand on his wrist, the thief rubbed his thumb slowly, almost teasingly, over the big man’s glans smearing him with his own pre. But teasing wasn’t a good idea…No, not at all. _Just get it over with_. He snarled to himself over and over again. Tightening his grip, Arkin pumped his hand down the masked man’s cock and squeezed it tightly on the upstroke. Hot, slick pre dripped almost steadily onto the smaller man’s hand and belly. Both legs remained clamped to the big man’s waist, holding onto him even as the body over him began to move. Like a bull in rut, the Collector curled his hips and thrust against the hand stroking his cock from balls to tip. Somewhere in the back of Arkin’s mind, that voice from the trunk giggled breathlessly. _I caused this. He’s all worked up, half outta his head cause of me._  There was a small flicker of power, but only a flicker. This was still the Collector’s house and he was still the one pinned to the floor bleeding.

They worked against each other, Arkin sliding his talented hand down as the big man rutted his hips up to meet him. Teasingly, agonizingly, the thief’s own knuckles grazed over his hard prick with each stroke. Not enough sensation to get off on, but just enough to keep that fluttering heat in his belly. “There you go, just like that…” Arkin murmured without thought, his mind distant and hazy. Feeling, feeling was easier than thinking. Arkin’s calves curled behind the Collector’s thighs and pulled him down until they were almost flush. Cold, so cold, not as cold as the morgue but _almost_ , close enough. The frosty end of autumn, if not winter proper. But the body pinning his own in, pinning his own down was _warm_. The Collector radiated heat like a furnace. As much as he could, the thief tucked himself under the big man’s bulk, craving and coveting that warmth.

A surprise huff blew over the sensitive skin of his neck, tickling him, driving his pulse to skip a beat. The Collector’s own heartbeat Arkin could easily feel beneath his fingers. Quickening his strokes, he tugged the big man towards the thing he _hoped_ would leave him sated and clear headed enough to go get a first aid kit. As he paused to gather the masked man’s pre from his belly, the Collector shifted over him. When the cold edge of a knife rested against the side of his throat, Arkin froze. Teeth chattering, he tried to think of something to say but his words were hiding within a fog of fear. Gently, so gently, the masked man grazed his knife over Arkin’s skin. Cold, then the stinging, and finally the pain. But no rush of blood, no draining sensation. Only when the Collector’s soft lips clamped needfully over this newest injury and suckled vigorously against the thief’s skin did Arkin dare to move. Deft fingers smeared the sloppy mix of his blood, the Collector’s spit, and pre over the big man’s cock; he told himself the last contribution came solely from his captor.

Bright fire licked across Arkin’s neck. Curling his fingers, coaxing, almost pleading, he milked the Collector’s heavy shaft onto himself. _Just get it over with._ Head bowed to bite and lick and suck the shallow, bloody cut on the thief’s throat, the masked man rocked his hips urgently against the smaller man’s touch. The feral sounds he made were muffled by Arkin’s skin, but the thief could hear them nonetheless. _Good, good…_ “Come on, come on, fucking take what you want.” The little thief snarled hoarsely, his tone somewhere between fear and ferocity. “You fucking caught me, so come on. Show me what you got.” Turning his head slightly, he panted this bizarre pseudo-pillow talk against the side of the big man’s head, near where he thought his ear might be under that mask.  “You wanna cut me open, huh? Smear my blood all over you? Yeah, I bet that’s crossed your fucked up mind, ain’t it? You wanna hang me up on those fucking hooks again, leave me defenseless, you prick?”

In Arkin’s curled, squeezing fingers, the Collector’s cock jumped and painted a line of pre across the thief’s belly. “So that’s how it is. Gonna cut me up then? Yeah? I fucking know you though, you’re not gonna let those bugs have all the fun this time. You want my blood, my fucking flesh, all to your damn self… You want to put your tongue inside me? Lick me open and leave me screaming?” The big man wasn’t the only one groaning breathlessly now. Whatever perverse words came to mind, Arkin tossed them out. His own hips arched upwards beseechingly. Was he still talking about the cuts? Inside the cuts, right? Right? “Then fucking come on, I want you to do it. Do it. I can take it. Fucking cut me, bleed me, you son of a bitch.” The thief snarled against the side of the Collector’s head and clenched his fingers down tight enough it should have hurt.

A harsh sound somewhere between a moan and a snarl vibrated against the slit in the side of Arkin’s neck. Vigorously, the big man slammed his hips up into Arkin’s grip before he froze, every muscle clenched and quivering. In the little thief’s clever hand, the heavy, thick cock jerked and pulsed. Hot cum spilled across Arkin’s fingers and belly, painting him, marking him. With deft strokes and knowledgeable fingers, he milked the Collector for all he had. It was only fucking fair, wasn’t it? The masked man had taken enough of his blood, after all. Fair trade. Slowly, like he actually gave a damn and wanted it to feel good, Arkin tapered off the motions of his hand. Breathing hard, covered in sweat but shivering cold, the smaller man lay silent and still beneath his captor.

The Collector froze, mouth on Arkin’s neck, his cock softening in thief’s hand. Even his breathing hitched and paused. With a low snarl, the masked man jerked backwards and untangled himself from the smaller man as though he’d discovered that Arkin were covered in parasites. Hands shaking, he shoved his blood smeared cock back into his pants and restored his clothes to proper order with violent, sharp motions. Every movement spoke of rage.

Flat on his back, his skin a mess of bodily fluids, Arkin peered up at the Collector with heavy lidded eyes. Slowly, he squinted. It may have been the blood loss…but the big man seemed to be regarding him as though he were the devil himself, a pagan witch fornicating upon the altar of god. Swallowing hard, he found no clever words springing to mind, no excuse for his actions. Between his thighs, covered in the other man’s cum, Arkin’s traitorous prick arched upwards. Those latex covered hands, big enough to palm both of his wrists, clenched and unclenched repeatedly. A ribbon of fear laced into the thief’s chest. Fuck.

While Arkin tried, and failed, to sit up the Collector stormed out of the room like a hurricane in human form. The door slammed behind him with a resounding metal clang that echoed like a mournful knell, heralding death and doom. Slowly, exhausted beyond reason, the little thief rolled over onto his side and curled in on himself like a grub. Wrapping his arms loosely around his legs, Arkin ducked his head almost against his knees and waited. Half formed thoughts danced just out of his reach. Tired and cold and hungry… But most of all, cold. Within his chest, his heart fluttered like a trapped bird. Quick, too quick.

Heavy hands slammed Arkin onto his back, forcing him out of his protective curl. Smooth fingers, warm but insistent, jabbed into the side of his throat and pressed painfully against his pulse point. Groaning, the little thief forced himself to open his eyes. The Collector crouched beside him, loomed over him. Behind that mask there was a look that…that _could_ have been concern. A dizzy, drunk grin sprawled over the smaller man’s face. “Aw, ain’t you sweet. Don’t worry- I’m not dead yet. Got no plans on dying any time soon. Not yet. Not while we’ve got business, you and me.” Arkin chuckled hoarsely and regretted it at once; his throat was still raw from the feeding tube. Despite the teasing, almost mocking, edge to his smile, the little thief’s chest felt overly tight and too warm. Slowly, Arkin reached up to cover the hand on his neck with his own.

In silence, the two men regarded one another carefully. The humor faded slowly from the thief’s face. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he waited for whatever pain, whatever punishment might be coming to him. The big man jerked his hand back from his captive’s throat and shook off his weak hand. A wet cloth, so warm it was nearly hot, slapped over Arkin’s lower belly. With rough, impatient motions, the Collector wiped his seed off his captive’s skin, removing the evidence of what he’d done. Gingerly, slower, gentler, the cloth traced over the thief’s flagging erection. A sluggish groan answered that slick sensation. With a low, soft growl the big man cast the cloth aside and grabbed onto Arkin’s upper arms. Harshly, he forced the wincing thief back onto his knees, as he’d been before.

Face to face, close enough to kiss. Soulless eyes glared into blue ones. Out of the blue and into the black, alright. Hesitantly, a latex covered thumb swiped over Arkin’s blood smeared lips. The little thief did not flinch away from the touch. Below the finger, his lips parted slightly. Staring, still staring… A sudden chill ran up Arkin’s spine. Fuck. _Fuck_. Dazed and half out of it, he hadn’t realized that this was an important, possibly pivotal moment. _I took control. I took control and he knows it._ A giddy rush of rebellious pride…quickly quashed by fear. What might someone like the Collector do if he felt that needed to _remind_ the thief of who was **really** in charge? Quickly, Arkin dropped his gaze and even tilted his head slightly to the side, bearing the cut on his throat in a sign of bestial submission. Resting his arms obligingly on his thighs with the cuts up, the little thief held himself perfectly still as before, presenting all of his pretty new wounds to the man responsible for them.

A long, long time, hours even, seemed to pass while Arkin waited to be judged.

Two fingers tapped the side of the thief’s neck, near the cut. With barely a second between the tap and the sudden, searing burn of rubbing alcohol, Arkin had no time to marshal himself against the pain. A sharp surprised half-scream broke from his lips…but he didn’t move. No. No, Arkin forced himself to be as still as possible. Motionless save for when the Collector wanted him to move, his good boy _(dog)_. The thought of being a serial killer’s little pet was enraging…but not _entirely._

_I want him to trust me, don’t I? I gotta be good for that…_

A heavy hand rested briefly atop Arkin’s head before withdrawing. He could feel but not see what the Collector was doing. Soft tugs and swipes against the side of his neck. A gentle pinch. Then the concealing comfort of a gauze pad. As the big man pulled his hands back from Arkin’s neck, he paused as though weighing his next move. Slowly, he sat down on the floor across from the little thief. A white first aid kit sat on the floor beside the masked man and some of the tension drained from the Arkin when he saw it. A good patient, Arkin held out both forearms to the Collector. Liquid fire traced over his skin, burrowed under his flesh, dug into his nerves, and bit down to his bones as a dripping pad of gauze held between two forceps rubbed back and forth over his arm and into the cuts upon it.

Despite his recent release, when Arkin moaned softly in pain, the Collector’s eyes brightened.

Setting the forceps and alcohol soaked gauze down, the big man reached for the shivering thief. Squinting in mild confusion, Arkin followed the firmly insistent pulls and nudges of the Collector’s hands. Slowly, he shuffled in a circle until his back faced the man he really did not want out of his sight. Two powerful arms snaked around Arkin’s waist and pulled him backwards, off his own bent legs and into the masked man’s lap. Knees together and feet resting out at awkward, uneven angles on the floor, the thief slumped back against the unyielding body behind him, grateful for the warmth. Beneath his hips, he could feel the shape of the other man but no indication that the Collector was considering starting round two anytime soon.

Silence, almost but not _quite_ comfortable, rested over them. Being good, Arkin moved his arms as directed by the big man’s points and gestures. Rather than bandaging each cut on its own, the Collector wrapped the thief’s arms in gauze from wrist to elbow, elbow to wrist until Arkin looked as though he’d tried to kill himself. As the last strip of medical tape was tacked onto the end of the gauze, the little thief cleared his throat. “Hey…Thanks. For, y’know.” Awkwardly he jerked his chin towards his forearms. Beneath him, the big man stilled. Daring to glance up, the smaller man found himself being studied closely, carefully, like an insect under a magnifying glass. Heart thudding in his chest, Arkin dropped his gaze and waited. Firm hands that brooked no question nor resistance pushed the little thief out of the warm lap and back onto the cold floor. Without being guided, Arkin turned once more to face his captor and waited. As the Collector stood, he paused to card his fingers once through the thief’s hair.

The wounded man exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in a sudden sigh of relief.

Turning away from his prize, the Collector strode across the room and shoved the curtain back to reveal the rest of the space. A large metal chair sat in the middle of the room. To one side, a table topped with a hot plate waited in attendance upon whatever madness was next to befall the thief. With movements that spoke of confidence and power, and perhaps some residual anger, the big man claimed the chair and sprawled luxuriously across it- a dark king upon a bitter throne. Thighs stretched wide apart, two fingers crooked at Arkin once. Come.

Although Arkin could see the hot plate and the pot on top of it, he couldn’t see what was _in_ the pot. Whatever it was, it was steaming. Eyes ticking from the single burner to the beckoning hand, the smaller man reluctantly eased himself onto all fours. The fresh cuts on his forearms cried out in protest, but it had been made clear that his discomfort and pain were meaningless in the face of the Collector’s wants and demands. Cringing in on himself, resenting the big man and hoping for his approval, Arkin crawled across the canvas to his captor. Those splayed thighs left the thief with only one avenue for approach and that _had_ to be deliberate. Head down, swaying slightly, the little thief settled back on his haunches between the big man’s spread legs. Without raising his head, Arkin peered up at the masked man and waited to see what new humiliation or horror awaited him.

Eyes of ink regarded him with a distractedly thoughtful expression. Looking away from Arkin, the Collector plucked a pair of tongs from the top of the table and used them to extract a bottle from the pot. A large plastic bottle tipped with a thick, rubber…nipple. The little thief cocked his head as he squinted. He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing because what he was seeing looked like what they used on _Animal Planet_ shows to nurse orphaned cows and shit. The Collector brought the bottle down close to Arkin’s face and again the smaller man caught a whiff of something savory. Frowning dubiously, the thief cut his eyes from the bottle up to the masked man as though silently asking if this was some kind of joke. Of course it wasn’t. Jaw set, the big man nudged the warm tip of the bottle against Arkin’s sealed lips.

A hot but not scalding liquid dripped out onto the smaller man’s lips and without thinking, he swiped his tongue out to lick the substance off. Immediately, the meaty flavor of chicken broth bloomed through his mouth. A loud, rumbling gurgle rippled up from Arkin’s belly. The message was clear and obvious- if he wanted to eat, this was the only way. Eyes closed, Arkin opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the smooth, warm synthetic nipple. The rubber teat was larger than the thief felt it strictly needed to be…not _obscenely_ large, but big enough that sucking on it felt lewd. Any other time, the broth that flooded into Arkin’s mouth would have been mild to the point of almost tasteless, but now after having gone so long without _real_ food, the taste was heavenly. The little thief moaned roughly and suckled like a good little doggy. Rough fingers wove into his hair and suddenly jerked him towards the big man. Unwilling to give up his new found food supply, Arkin immediately followed the yank and half tumbled gracelessly against the Collector’s groin.

A harsh, short grunt sounded above his head.

Shuffling his leg sluggishly forward, Arkin continued to feed as though there was nothing else in the world that mattered…and in that moment, there wasn’t anything else. Heat flowed down his throat and spread through his chest and belly, warming him from the inside out. Eyes more closed than open, the little thief slumped against the masked man. Did time pass? It didn’t _seem_ like time had passed, but the flow of broth from the bottle into his mouth dried up until there was nothing left. And the bottle had been fairly large. A soft, bratty grumble of displeasure slipped out of the little thief’s mouth along with the rubber teat. Heavy warmth suffused his full belly, and yet he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted _more_.

Two large, smooth hands slipped under Arkin’s arms and hauled him upward. Blinking quickly, the smaller man struggled to help this motion but his legs did not want to work anymore than his eyes wanted to stay open. Easily manipulating the underweight thief, the Collector settled his prize sideways in his lap and held him possessively against his chest. Dizzy and light-headed, exhausted and full of hot food for the first time in a long time, Arkin pressed himself firmly and beseechingly against the warm, muscular bulk of his captor’s torso. Weak, shaking fingers curled in the rough-soft fabric of the big man’s sweater and held on. He had to keep watch. He had to stay aware. And yet Arkin’s body seemed bound and determined to keep on betraying him. Sleep slipped over him like calm waves through which he surfaced into consciousness only briefly before another wave pushed him under.

Perilously unaware, Arkin didn’t know how long the Collector sat perfectly still in that chair doing nothing more than watching his pet sleep. Nor did he stir as the big man fastidiously checked his bandages to make absolutely certain they were secure, but not tight enough to cut off blood flow. The little thief wriggled and groaned softly as the masked man stood, lifting the smaller man all too easily. Carefully, the Collector lay his strange new prize down inside the trunk once more. On his side, curled in on himself, the thief looked so small, so fragile. A little chipped china vase. And against the black interior of the trunk, Arkin’s flesh was deathly, deathly pale. Impossible to say how much blood he’d lost, but it had been…substantial. For a long, long time the masked man crouched beside the trunk. Tentatively, his hand snaked down to barely touch the bandage covering the side of Arkin’s throat.

With a sudden snarl and angry motions, the Collector rose to his feet and slammed the trunk’s lid shut. Arkin’s eyes opened slightly just as his captor furiously shoved home the dual locks on the trunk’s exterior, but his vision met only darkness. Eyes open, eyes closed, darkness. Arkin stretched a hand out slowly and confirmed what he suspected. The rough wood, by now familiar, pressed back against him. A ribbon of fear laced through his heart…and faded away into the dull white noise that tried so hard to coax him back to sleep. _He won’t forget me. He’ll let me out…_ The little thief told himself drunkenly. _He’ll take me out again._

That, at least, Arkin was fairly confident in. What he couldn’t be sure of was what the Collector would _do_ with him once he was out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really like writing Collector/Arkin smut. Arkin can only be good for so long before he gets a little sassy, but that's part of the fun, I suppose. I think this is still slowburn because, to me, slowburn means a gradual lead-up to emotional closeness. ...And yeah, I have a really hard time not smutting it up because I'm garbage like that. 
> 
> I'll get to work on a new chapter ASAP. As a bit of a teaser, Arkin is going to get his first test outside the Collector's direct control. He's going out in the maze. 
> 
> I've been really, really thinking about putting Abby in the story later on. I like her. I like how she and Arkin huddled together in the movie. What do you guys think? A lot of times in fandom it seems like bringing in a third character is frowned upon. Going for 100% transparency (pun intended) here, if I do put Abby in, she's going to be a trans!woman. Pre-op trans!woman. I'm not planning any sort of transphobic talk or abuse regarding her or anything. So I'd love to know your opinions in the comments. Abby and Arkin would not be adversarial to one another nor in competition, really. No home wrecking or anything. 
> 
> Hope you guys liked the new chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this years ago, right after I saw the first movie in the series. Then I set it aside, unfinished, for years. Reading stories from this fandom posted here by some incredibly talented writers inspired me to start working on this story again. So, thanks to everyone whose Collector stories I've bookmarked or given Kudos to. 
> 
> I do not have an editor or proof reader. Grammar is not my foremost concern, especially when it comes to abusing commas (they know what they did), unless it distracts from the enjoyment of the story itself. If you notice a word that doesn't make any sense where it is, please let me know. I sometimes swap words in ways that aren't logical and I don't notice.


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